


The Unvarnished Truth

by Interpolations



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Artist Jack Kelly, Class Issues, Cuban-Irish-American Jack Kelly, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Jacobs Family Feels, M/M, Minor Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Paint-Based Humour, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Car Accidents, Past Child Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Slow Burn, art history references, but pretty much everyone is traumatized in some fashion, this fic is lighter than this list makes it sound, updates will be very sporadic but I have not abandoned this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interpolations/pseuds/Interpolations
Summary: When Jack is commissioned to paint Katherine Pulitzer’s portrait, he knows his career is made.He can’t say he was expecting the mysterious chauffeur.
Relationships: Crutchie & Jack Kelly, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Jack Kelly & Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sarah Jacobs & Jack Kelly
Comments: 105
Kudos: 73





	1. The Commission

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I had a thoughtful explanation but honestly this started because, apropos of _absolutely nothing_ , the thought “portrait artist Jack & chauffer Davey Gilded Age AU” popped in my head, along with the first 2500 words of this chapter and five completely unconnected scenes. I don’t know what spirit possessed me, but I wish it had the courtesy of sticking around to finish this mess before departing to the beyond. In any case, I’ve done research now so I’m doing this.

When Jack was fifteen—before he had canvases, before he had commissions, and well before he had _prestige_ —Miss Medda asked him to paint a backdrop for her theatre.

The request itself wasn’t odd. Jack had been painting backdrops for the Bowery since he was seven, initially under the careful and restrictive direction of Mr. Moyer the set designer, and later with complete free reign so long as he remembered to _put the tarp out this time, Kelly, or next time you’re gonna be the one sanding the yellow spots out of the floorboards._

It was what Miss Medda requested he paint that was special.

Jack was known for his landscapes. He’d paint towering mountains and skies that stretched forever. He’d paint rolling hills and storms on the horizon. He painted the deserts he’d only ever read about and the sea he could only see if he traveled out to the edge of the city. Jack painted nature. Jack painted the wilderness. Jack painted the parts of the world he’d never get to see, the wide-open spaces and fresh air he dreamed about as he slept in the overly cramped orphanage.

He didn’t paint the city.

So when Miss Medda asked him special to paint a grand house front for their upcoming act, he had lots of work to do.

He spent days in the fanciest parts of New York, armed only with his sketchbook and watchful eyes. With quick lines, he figured out the proper widths of the columns and archways. In the corner of the page he tallied up the windows. With the flat edge of his pencil, he measured the angles of the high-peaked roofs and tall turrets. He jotted down quick notes on the warm and cool tones of the bricks and stone beside his studies, his mind already trying to imagine just how much red he’d have to mix into the umber. He would find a shaded spot nearby, out of the prying eyes of delivery boys and the wary looks of the house staff, to sit and properly capture the details. He sketched the intricate moulding and the sculptures on the gate pillars. With a light hand he shaded the hazy film of lace curtains in bay windows. Anything he could see he would draw.

Five days later he’d filled his head and half his pages with the stuff. He dusted the dirt off his trousers and returned to the Bowery to start on the next steps.

For two more weeks, he put all the elements together, columns and gables, thin windows and high peaked roofs, to create the grandest house he could manage. He rendered it in such detail he could almost lift it off the cracked wooden backdrop. As he washed up in the evenings, he would imagine putting it a half-block from the theatre. It could replace the butcher shop—the one run by the man that would say snide things to Medda when he was in a good mood and violently rude things when he was feeling less stellar. Jack would grin imagining what he’d say then, so wide that Medda would ask what he was thinking about and he’d just reply “just somethin’ silly Miss Medda, it’s nothin’.”

Four days before curtain he stayed the entire night to complete his work, hiding in the wings so that he could surprise the crew he saw as his family. He wasn’t sure what hour he’d finished, just that he added one last dash of bright yellow on the edge of a window, the glow of the sun painted by the light of the candle, and then curled up and fell fast asleep.

He’d woken up to a gentle nudge. The first thing he saw was Medda’s tear stained cheeks. The second thing he saw was her wide smile.

The backdrop was a hit. Jack heard snatches of conversation about it as they walked out of the shows. It was at least mentioned in every review of the show. But the topic of their talk surprised him. People marveled, yes, but they also chuckled at the sight of it.

Jack saved one of the reviews, folded up in the back of the sketchbook half-filled with houses. It was the one written by the only critic Medda ever paid attention to, the only review that actually had a picture of the set, the one that spent almost two inches talking about how “the over-adorned mansion perfectly mirrors the talented Medda Larkin’s satirical pokes at the pompous grandeur of the rich and famous.”

Jack didn’t mind. No, really, he didn’t. So long as the show went well, he was happy. And if he crept up to the wings and sat behind the curtain and stared at the backdrop to try and see which parts pushed his dream just too far out of reality… well, that was his business.

He painted over the flat for the next show. He covered it with a pearly lake under a moon-lit sky. The great house had stood for well over two months, and, in all that time, Jack never did manage to see what was wrong with it.

It wasn’t until he stood in front of the Pulitzer estate that he understood. He’d packed too much in, combined so many fantasies it looked ridiculous. Folks like the Pulitzers didn’t need to cram every architectural detail on the front of their house—they didn’t need to prove anything.

“You want me to wait?” Race called over the rattle of the engine, looking through the still-open truck door, eyes glancing around to see if someone was watching them.

Jack had half a mind to do the same.

“Nah, I’m good,” he replied with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. “Thanks for the ride, though.”

Race grinned. “No problem, hotshot. You know I’m only doing it for a line in your memoirs.”

“I’ll save you a whole chapter, Higgins,” he promised. “See you tonight?”

“Seven o’clock, only pub that don’t serve swill, bring the boys,” Race recited dutifully.

“I’m looking forward to it, too, so don’t go takin’ on no extra deliveries at the end of the night, got it?”

“Yeah yeah. Now giddy-up, Cowboy. Don’t make these folks wait when they’re what’s making you bank.”

“You’re a menace.” He slammed the door and gestured with a quick ‘shoo’. “Get outa here before even you can’t lie away how late you are.”

Race saluted sternly before he gave Jack one last grin, started up the truck, and made a tight turn to head back towards the main road.

Now alone, armed only with his satchel, his sketchbook, and a letter that prevented him from being shot for trespassing, Jack strode down the level gravel path and towards the great house.

It was a long road between painting a mansion and walking up the front steps of one—it was a road Jack didn’t realize he was on, really, but he figured he might as well stick to the path and see where it went.

He rang the doorbell and waited.

The door opened without a creak. In the gap stood a stout and round-faced older man in a blindingly white livery. His grey hair was combed so neatly there was a thin line of pale skin leading from his forehead to his crown.

Jack watched that pale line as the butler looked Jack up and down slowly.

“Mr. Kelly, I presume?” he drawled.

“That’d be me.” Jack agreed, flashing the grin that Charlie described as somewhere between rakish and roguish and _for the love of god don’t do that grin when you meet Miss Pulitzer, Jack, they’re gonna think you’re trying to flirt and you’re gonna get tossed out on your ass._

The man at the door was not Miss Pulitzer, though, so Jack didn’t feel bad for falling back on old habits.

Mind, the man did not look particularly _impressed_ , but that could well just be his reaction to Jack’s general person. He knew he was a little on the scruffier side, seeing as he’d never managed to get his hair to slick down proper, and he was always going to be a shade darker than most of these high-class folks no matter how many holidays they went on, and paint pigments stained like nothing else and Jack… well, Jack had never been able to be careful when he was really in the throes of inspiration. All things considered, Jack knew he looked like a charming paint-stained miscreant, and, on any other day, he would have been sent packing in an instant if not chased off the front step.

But he had the letter.

With a near-imperceptible curl of his lip, the man opened the door wider.

“Right this way, sir.”

Jack flashed an even wider smile and chirped a quick “Much obliged!” just to see if he’d wince. He must’ve been old hat at all this, though, because he barely frowned.

The inside was grander than the outside. The main door opened to a wide entrance hall with high ceilings, flanked on either side by closed doors—the same dark-stained wood as the front door. There was a carpet running up the center, the design so intricate Jack felt sorry for stepping on it with his slush-muddied shoes—well, he certainly felt bad for the poor maid that had to clean it.

“Your coat, sir?” a voice said behind him.

Jack turned to see two more servants. The first was probably a few years Jack’s senior. He was handsome in a boring way except for the scorn that was making his eye twitch. The other was much younger looking—though Jack wasn’t sure if he was young or just really damn lucky. The kid looked a much friendlier sort, with a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth that showed he much preferred cheer to any of this overly-polite crap.

In noticing all this, it took Jack a second to notice the twitchy-eyed one’s hand was held out, palm up.

“Oh, sure.” Jack replied. He pocketed his gloves, shrugged off his coat and handed it over. “Thanks.”

Twitchy’s eye twitched more—oh, right, they didn’t do that here—but the kid barely stopped himself from smiling at Jack’s slip up. Twin dimples popped on his cheeks. Yep. Jack called it; a smiley one. 

“In here, sir,” the sour butler said, turning to open one of the doors to their immediate left, holding it open for Jack.

“Sure thing,” he said as he stepped inside.

That curled his lip.

“I will alert the Pulitzers of your arrival, Mr. Kelly,” the butler said. “Please wait in here.”

 _And don’t touch anything_ , he said with his eyes.

And, because Jack knew he had a lot of good behaviour ahead of him, he grinned the grin and said “can do” in the thickest Lower Manhattan accent he could muster.

The kid came in from the hall, standing just at the inside of the door as the fuddy-duddy turned and left Jack alone in the giant drawing room.

And, _boy_ , was it giant—way bigger than the shoebox he used to share with the boys. Like the outside and the entrance of the house, Jack was near bowled over by the fanciness. The walls were papered a cream-colour, faintly patterned with a grey design. The wooden floor was covered with a large rug, also cream-coloured and faintly pattered. The furniture was all matching dark red-toned wood. The lacquer shone in the light that was streaming into the room through the two tall windows on the wall opposite him—the ones that almost reached the ceiling, arched at the top, hung with heavy red curtains and fine lace. More light shone through the bay windows to Jack’s right. A fainting couch was set up just in front of them. A book had been left behind on it, spine open, facing down the way Charlie always left his when he got interrupted and couldn’t find a scrap of paper to mark the page. It was a comforting sight, seeing as Jack had yet to see any sign of life in the too-perfect room.

His eye caught a flash of movement. There was a figure—a man by the trousers and the height—making his way towards the garage. He was walking quickly, head bowed, with his collar flipped up against what Jack knew to be a chilly wind. He stopped at the door before he paused and looked up sharply.

Jack looked away, caught. He then immediately realized there was no damn way the man could have seen him almost twenty yards away and through a window and felt stupid.

He looked up to see the garage door swinging shut.

He looked back to check if the kid had seen his blunder. The kid was gazing upwards. He was barely paying attention to Jack, much less tall figures out the window that caught the eye and somehow felt the attention.

“Hey.” The kid startled slightly—lost in thought, Jack could practically read him like a book—before he righted himself. Jack continued to ask: “it okay if I…” and trailed off as he gestured around the room with his finger.

A nod.

“Thanks.”

Without the other two there to tell him off for it, Jack was rewarded with a dimpled grin.

His feet followed his hands’ demands for warmth and took him towards the fireplace. It was marble because of course it was, and the embers glowed soft and warm. In front of it was another smaller rug laid over the first rug—Christ, rich folk were weird. This one was one of those fancy Persian ones, rich reds shot through with pale yellow and the sort of blue Jack had to save up for. Around the rug there were two arm chairs and a sofa, all framed with the same wood as the tables and drawers. Mind, Jack probably should call it a settee or lounge or something else nicer sounding, seeing as the leather looked so expensive that he was scared to sit on it. A mirror hung above the mantle. Jack stopped himself from trying to anxiously tidy himself up. Instead, he looked to the painting on the side.

It was surprisingly small for a portrait, only two feet tall. Six children had been arranged around a chair Jack suspected was somewhere else in the house. The children were all round-faced and rosy cheeked, so much so that he was sure it was more of a style thing. Enough of them had the same upturned noses, pale pink complexions, and auburn that he knew they had to be the Pulitzer children. His eye was quickly drawn to the youngest. She was just a baby in the painting, all wide eyes and rosebud lips.

He leaned in close. Even with his nose an inch from the canvas, he could only make out a few brush strokes. Whoever the artist was, he’d used a hell of a lot of layers. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if there was ten times as much linseed oil than pigment in the thing.

Jack leaned back to take in the whole painting once more. It was stiff. It was definitely stiff. The kids looked like they were tied to rods, standing straight up, their cuffs pressed, their clothing wrinkled only enough that the artist could paint how the light caught their silky clothes.

He thought about the letter in his pocket and, not for the first time, hoped that it had been sent with his work in mind rather than the reviews in the paper.

Outside the door he heard the echo of footsteps and a woman’s voice saying: “really, darling, you mustn’t fuss so–” and he had just enough time to move away from the painting and towards the centre of the room as the fussy man and twitchy servant entered once more, this time with company.

“Mr. Kelly,” the woman said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Ma’am,” he said easily, stepping forward to take her hand and bowed to press a light kiss to her knuckles.

As he stood from the slight bow, he saw her polite smile had stretched to something coy. “A gentleman painter, aren’t we so lucky.”

The man’s eyes flicked up towards the ceiling at his mother’s remark.

She had to be his mother, of course. They had the same brown hair, though hers had begun to fade, shot through with strands of white. She was a remarkably handsome woman, with fine features and a round face. Age had yet to truly touch her, but it had brushed its hand on the corner of her eyes and between her brows. Her son had her round face but not her good eyesight, as he wore silver-framed specs, which magnified heavy-lidded dark eyes. They both wore shades of grey, his tweed suit like graphite and her lace-collared dress light like the clouds that hung outside. Jack wondered if they did it on purpose—present a united front.

“My I introduce my mother, Mrs. Kate Pulitzer. I am Ralph Pulitzer.” He did these introductions with a bob of his head, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is good to finally put a face to your name, Mr. Kelly.”

“I suppose that is always the trouble with becoming a portrait artist, isn’t it?” Mrs. Pulitzer remarked. “People will come to know the faces of those you depict but they may never recognize the artist himself.”

“Same issue with any artist, Ma’am. You couldn’t spot a landscape painter if he was standing right beside his work, either. At least this way someone gets recognized.”

The pair smiled at that and Jack had to press down the urge to cheer.

_Don’t get excited yet, Kelly, you still got at least an hour to go of not offending nobody._

“Shall we sit?” Ralph asked.

Jack claimed an armchair. They perched themselves on the settee.

“We truly are pleased you agreed to come,” Ralph Pulitzer said once they’d all settled. “I am afraid neither of us have had the opportunity to see your work, but I have heard so much about it from my sisters, I feel I could find it in any gallery without direction or assistance.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack responded, and, taking a chance, continued on to say: “but I should probably check what they’ve said of my work that would make it so recognizable before I go accepting their remarks as compliments.”

He judged right, as Mrs. Pulitzer smiled at the remark.

“I find clarification to be a good practice to maintain,” she responded. “My husband certainly would agree, especially in his line of work. He sends his apologies that he could not be here to greet you. We will be sure you are introduced at a later date.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I look forward to it.”

“Now, I do not know how clear he was in his letter to Mr. Morris—he has a habit of being to the point to the detriment of details–”

“Mother–”

“He would be the first to admit it. No matter, though. What did he say?”

“He said that he wanted to purchase a few paintings and asked if I would paint a portrait of your daughter.”

Mrs. Pulitzer gave her son a significant look. Ralph sighed, eyes once again flicking up to the ceiling.

“Well, none of that is incorrect, at least. We do wish to purchase a number of paintings from you as well as commission a portrait of our youngest. We will be refurnishing our New York apartment soon and are looking to replace our landscapes. I understand you are also proficient in landscape painting?”

“I started as a landscape painter, Ma’am,” Jack confirmed.

“Wonderful! And are those done in the French style as well?”

“A combination, Ma’am,” he replied, settling into the familiar rhythm of discussing his work. “I do prefer to work en plein air. I’ll confess, though, that my compositions reveal me to be a bit of a Romantic at heart.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment before she laughed, surprised. “Well, I will confess I find myself missing the sublime every so often.”

“We may be well matched then,” he said with a grin. “I can bring some of my canvases for your selection.”

“Oh no, you misunderstand me,” she said. “We are looking to commission those as well.”

Jack was sure his surprise showed judging by the way both their mouths twitched.

“I find myself missing the estate when I am sequestered away in the apartment,” she explained, “so I would like for you to paint locations around the property—the scenes will be entirely your selection, of course, as I look forward to seeing my home through the eyes of an artist.”

“Please do bring your canvases, though,” Ralph interjected. “I am interested in purchasing some for my sisters for Christmas presents.”

When he had first started getting popular, Spot and Race had held him under lock and key until he could do a reasonable job schooling his expression into neutrality. Spot explained to him that he had the sort of face “a blind man in on a galloping horse five miles away could read” and Race further elaborated that “if you go gapin’ like a fish at any wad of cash over a hundred you’re gonna get scammed.”

As Jack tilted his head slightly, he caught himself in the mirror. Polite and faintly curious. With the money he was about to make off this job he was gonna buy those two as many bottles of whisky and boxes of cigars as they wanted.

“I think I understand your request,” he said with a carefully even tone, “but how does the portrait work into all this?”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Pulitzer said, folding her hands on her lap. “The portrait would be of our youngest daughter, Katherine. She has yet to be painted outside of the family portraits and it is well past time we rectify that. You seem the perfect man for the job. As we have said, our two eldest daughters have already seen your work—Constance was lucky enough to see the collection in Macbeth Galleries and Edith saw your portrait of Miss Larkin when her husband visited the governors’ office. They spoke highly of your work, as has the public.”

“I understand, Ma’am,” he acknowledges, smiling to soften the tone, “And I am sure we can talk later about composition and pose and all that. But how would you like to coordinate the sittings?”

“Oh, of course,” she said easily. “We would be happy to arrange for her to go to your studio.”

“That was my concern,” Jack said. “I’m afraid my portrait work is similar to my landscape work—I finish my work in my studio, but I prefer to paint my sitters outdoors or in locations they are comfortable in. I find it makes the poses more natural and, really, most look better when they are comfortable.”

“How fascinating!” Mrs. Pulitzer exclaimed.

Jack hoped so. He and Charlie had spent weeks workshopping that lie around the boys, until it was deemed good enough to go unquestioned.

The fewer people to see his decrepit apartment-turned-studio the better. He’d only just patched the hole in the wall in time for the first cold snap of the season so that his paint didn’t go freezing. Jack was _not_ going to bring an _heiress_ back to that place.

When the commissions and orders started flooding in, they realized that the whole having a studio but not one that other folks could really sit in was kind of odd. Jack had floated the idea of just asking Medda to use one of her dressing rooms and paying rent to cover. This was met with swearing, sighing, and whacks on the shin.

Charlie had been the one to figure out the base lie. Jack was tasked with using his occasional cleverness to get folks to take the bait.

“If I am already coming here to paint the property, how about I paint your daughter here as well?” he offered. “I can do studies and sketches initially, start the canvas, and then finish it in my studio.”

Mrs. Pulitzer exchanged a look with her son.

“Yes, that should work. Of course, we will have to confirm all this with my husband.”

“Of course,” Jack agreed easily rather than eagerly.

“I do not imagine he would argue against any of this, though.”

_Got ‘em._

“My apologies,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “but I do want to confirm; how many landscape paintings did you want for your apartment?”

“Oh, five, I believe, depending on the size of course,” she said easily. “though we invite you to paint as many as you would like in the coming months. we wouldn’t dream of trying to quell your artistic vision. Who knows, we may be inclined to select more. I’m sure we can find the space. I may even convince my husband to finally decorate his office.”

Five, maybe more, personal landscapes, a full portrait, and purchases from his existing work? _Christ_ these folks were rich.

He raised a brow. “That is a lot to commission, Ma’am.”

“I suppose we are fancying ourselves as patrons, really,” she said on a tinkling laugh. “Now, does this all sound agreeable to you?”

I sounded too good to be true, but Jack knew there was no way to say it without causing offence or drawing ire. “It sounds wonderful, Ma’am–”

“Well I am very glad to hear that.”

“–but I must consult with Mr. Morris before I agree to anything in full,” he continued to say. “As happy as I would be to take up your generous offer, this is a lot to consider. I am estimating this to be a three-month stall in production, perhaps four depending on the weather and the sittings. That is not something I can agree to with haste.”

For a moment, time stopped. There was nothing on their faces except shock.

A smile slowly spread on Mrs. Pulitzer’s face. “I don’t think I saw any mention of canniness in your reviews.”

Jack ducked his head.

_Once you get them, get that modesty workin’. Folks don’t like to feel caught._

_And maybe make a joke._

“Well, I’m still figuring out how to communicate that in paint, Ma’am.” He said.

She smiled wide and Jack could tell Ralph was trying not to do the same.

“Very well,” she obliged. “How soon would you be able to consult him?”

“I was already going to meet him tonight, Ma’am.”

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “You are surprisingly well organized for an artistic type.”

“You can thank Mr. Morris for that if you meet him, Ma’am,” Jack said, not lying one bit. “I’m afraid he had to beat it into me but the lessons stuck.”

She laughed brightly at that.

“As another point of consideration as far as coordinating our request,” Ralph interjected. “How would you be getting to and from the property?”

“A cab, most likely,” he offered.

“Oh, you needn’t go to that trouble,” Mrs. Pulitzer fussed. “And cab fares these days are truly criminal. He could use Jacobs, couldn’t he, darling?”

“I thought so,” Ralph said to his mother. He turned back to Jack and clarified: “We would be happy to offer the service of our chauffeur to transport you. We could arrange to have the car pick you up in the mornings. Of course, you may then be restricted as to when you leave, but I’m certain we can arrange something that works for all parties.”

“We can arrange those fine details at a later date, of course,” Mrs. Pulitzer said.

“Of course,” Jack echoed.

A free ride from Manhattan to Long Island—a _personal_ ride from Manhattan to Long Island—was nothing to scoff at that was for sure. And it sure showed they were good on the idea of him being on the property to paint for hours. This job was looking better and better.

“Have we forgotten anything, Darling?” Mrs. Pulitzer asked her son and, before he could answer, continued on to say: “If we have then I must apologize for I am not certain. I suppose we must now pause our excitement to confirm this arrangement with our partners.”

“Mother…”

She laughed at her son’s sigh.

“Well,” Ralph pulled a watch from his vest pocket and clicked it open to check the time, “that went much quicker than expected. May we offer the service of our chauffeur to transport you home?”

“I’ll gladly take it, seeing as I also expected this to take longer and planned my ride accordingly.”

He had planned to walk far enough to hitchhike with the hopes that the wind had died down by then.

“I am glad this works out, then. Benjamin, tell Jacobs to meet us at the front.”

“Yes, Sir,” the kid said, ducking out.

 _Benjamin_. Geez, that didn’t suit him one bit.

“We will send Mr. Morris the full details of the commission shortly,” Mrs. Pultizer said, rising elegantly from her seat. In an absent tone she called over to Twitchy: “Vince, fetch Mr. Kelly’s coat.”

 _Vince._ Alright, Jack could see that.

The pair accompanied him to the door, where the fuddy-duddy butler was waiting.

“It truly has been a pleasure, Mr. Kelly,” Mrs. Pulitzer said.

Jack kissed her hand once more, letting his smile flare a little wider this time. “The pleasure’s been all mine, Ma’am.”

She smiled indulgently and turned to her son, who seemed to have accepted this as his lot in life. He too presented his hand, and Jack shook it firmly.

“We hope to see you again soon,” he said. He had his mother’s smile.

“I hope we do,” Jack replied. “Good day to you both.”

“Good day, Mr. Kelly,” Ralph said.

The butler opened the door and Jack stepped out feeling light as air because _holy shit he actually did it._

He’d bantered without offending. He’d negotiated. He’d impressed. He hadn’t slipped into his Lower Manhattan accent once. He’d taken every ounce of Charlie’s advice and Race’s teasing and Spot’s commands and Mush’s faith and Elmer’s encouragement and he’d used it. More importantly he’d lived up to it. And everything was falling into place because of it. He’d have three months of work booked up and enough money to support him for the next _year_. He had the greatest excuse in the world for the next time those stuck-up old birds tried to get him to paint their snooty granddaughters right after they’d looked down their noses at Charlie’s cane and Jack’s battered jacket. Hell, he could probably tell them to fuck off and still get more offers because these were the _Pulitzers_ and he was not only gonna be the first person to paint their daughter but he was gonna paint their entire estate and they weren’t even gonna tell him how to do it. He reminded himself that they could probably still see him and it would be unbecoming of a professional artist to jump for joy.

The car pulled to the front just as Jack reached the bottom step so that helped him press down the urge.

It was sleek black with gold trim because of course it was. The engine puttered much softer than most of the trucks that drove by Jack’s studio apartment—either more expensive or better cared for, probably both.

The driver stepped out, came round to the front, took off his cap, looked up and–

“Jacobs, deliver Mr. Kelly to his desired location and then pick up Mr. Pulitzer.”

“Yes, Mr. Bunsen.”

Jack was first struck by his height—almost as tall as the car, and probably half a foot taller than Jack. The next thing he noticed was that he was the prettiest man Jack had ever seen in his entire fucking life.

He was a study in curves and angles—sharp jaw, high cheekbones and hollowed cheeks, roman nose—somehow straddling the line between classic and fine featured. In the cool autumn light, he was near alabaster, his pale complexion only emphasized by his dark hair and the dark grey of his uniform. The cool wind brought a soft flush across his cheeks and nose.

This had to be a joke. It just had to be. There is no way a family like the Pulitzers would have such an incredibly beautiful man hidden away in the garage. He’d have to be the clumsiest person alive to not be forced into a livery and paraded around.

Jacobs opened the door to the back seat and waited. Jack nodded in thanks, voice caught in his lungs, and risked another glance as he stepped in.

His eyes were a cold pale blue. The skin beneath them was stained with the bruises of fatigue and the space between his brows was faintly lined with worry. They held a bone-deep weariness and Jack was struck not with the desire to capture it but with the desire to draw every ounce of hurt from his expression.

Well. Shit. This might be a problem.

..........

By the time they reached Lower Manhattan, Jack was certain that Jacobs was not only the most beautiful man Jack had ever seen but that he was also the most focussed person Jack had ever met. He was reasonably certain that Jacobs might be the most focussed person on earth.

He hadn’t looked away from the road once. In the small mirror, Jack could see his eyes flickering about, tracking every movement around the car. His hands were steady on the wheel, only dropping to shift the stick at his side in sharp movements, returning to the exact same position they had been before.

He was a fantastic driver, for all Jack could tell.

He was also _silent_ in a way Jack had never managed to be. He’d just nodded when Jack told him the address. If he hadn’t heard him answer Bunsen the Butler, Jack would have thought him mute. The only sound was the sputtering of theirs and others’ engines and, once they crossed Brooklyn Bridge, the sounds of the city surrounding them. Having grown up in New York, though, meant both faded into nothingness in Jack’s ears.

The drive was quiet. Jack didn’t do well with quiet.

“So,” he started, and his voice must have been _way too damn loud_ because Jacobs flinched like a gun had just gone off, “how long you worked for the Pulitzers?”

His eyes flicked up in the mirror to meet Jack’s. They were still very blue.

“Two years, sir,” Jacobs answered. His voice was clear and strong.

His voice was real nice.

_Get it together, Kelly._

“Right. Good.” _That’s not together, Kelly._ “You like it?”

Jacobs stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“I– shit. Sorry. That’s a shit question, sorry.”

“It is alright, sir,” Jacobs said evenly, “The Pulitzers are very generous employers.”

Jack was sure he’d say that if the Pulitzers paid them in bread crusts and made them sleep outside. Because that’s what you did when you didn’t want to get fired. And Jack knew that. So _why did he just ask that question?_

“Good. That’s good,” he said. “Glad to hear.”

Jacobs nodded once, sharp. His eyes flicked up into the mirror once more, the worried divot between his brows deeper.

Jack leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes.

Yep. This part was gonna be a problem.

..........

He arrived home to no fanfare, bid a quick goodbye to Jacobs that was met with a stern nod, headed up three flights of stairs, unlocked the door to his place, closed it behind him, and yelled and leaped with elation to release the emotions he’d pent up for hours until Mrs. Reinhart banged her broom handle her ceiling to get him to stop.

With two hours found, Jack puttered around his place, to worked up to even touch a paintbrush, just frantically moving around the space, half finishing the dishes he’d left in the morning and half staring into space remembering moments of quick-thinking he didn’t think he had in him and the sound of Mrs. Pulitzers laugh as he actually _impressed her_ asking himself _did that really just happen?_

For all their practice and preparation, some part of him never thought it would pay off. And it did. It paid off big time.

At six thirty he put on his thickest flannel, vest, and jacket and pulled on his cap. He grinned as wide as he wanted one more time before he ducked out into the hall and out on the building where smiling like that made other folks look at you funny or like you were funny.

Jack ducked into the dingy little pub just as the clock tower chimed seven. He looked around the hazy smoke-filled room and saw his boys in their usual corner spot. Pausing in the doorway, he let the heat of the room and the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest at the sight of them bring feeling back to his fingers.

Mush saw him first, looking up from his conversation with Chuck. He raised two glasses in his direction and shouted: “Hey!”

The others looked up at that and echoed their own greetings.

“Hail the conquering hero!” Race crowed. “Glad you see you made it out in one piece.”

“Why do I put up with you lot?” Jack griped as he walked over. He grabbed the glass from Mush and took a big gulp. “Right, that’s why.”

Mush laughed loudly, clapping him on the back so hard Jack only narrowly stopped the drink from spilling. 

“Alright, _Mr. Kelly_ ,” Charlie said, his smile widening at the shudder Jack affected at the name, “how’d it go? Anything _interesting_ to share?”

Jack pushed away thoughts of pale chauffeurs with weary blue eyes and stunning profiles.

“Boys,” he said, collapsing into the chair with a grin, “you’re not gonna fucking believe this.”


	2. The Subject

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did _not_ expect this to get the warm reception it did, so thank you! I’m glad you’re all enjoying it so far! 
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: none.

About a week and a half after that first meeting with the Pulitzer’s, Jack found himself woken from a dead sleep by something he can’t say he expected.

_CRASH!_

Jack was up in a second, throwing off the sheets and leaping up from the pull-out couch and grabbing for the bat that– _shit_ he hadn’t remembered to grab it from the bedroom last night so he looked around wildly before he saw–

Albert and Elmer were standing in the kitchen, just behind the small table Charlie bought so that Race wouldn’t take up the whole apartment every time he came over to cook. They were both frozen. Elmer’s hands were over his mouth, his eyes blown wide. Albert’s arms were out, reaching, fork in one hand. Jack followed the lines of Albert’s arms to see the mess of shards and splatters on the floor.

A loud series of thumps from behind the bedroom door was their only warning before Mush burst in, wooden bat raised high. Jack watched as Mush’s eyes traveled the exact same path his had before finally landing on the two boys with an expression of absolute _what the fuck is going on in here?_

Elmer recovered first. He dropped his hands and then looked from Jack to Mush to the mess to Albert. Even in the dim light of morning, Jack could see the resignation in his expression.

“I told you this would happen.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Uh…” Jack rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “What?”

Three soft taps drew their attention.

Charlie was leaning against the bedroom door frame, cane in hand and pajamas rumpled. His hair fell loosely over his forehead in a way he usually hated and immediately fixed. At the moment, though, he seemed more concerned with the state of the kitchen and the apartment’s occupants.

“What the _hell–_ ”

“Good morning,” Elmer said, polite as always.

Drier than the desert, Charlie replied: “Good morning.”

“Yeah. Morning,” Jack said. “Uh… what?”

“He wanted to make you breakfast for good luck,” Elmer explained.

With the lingering effects of last night’s drinks, the still-thrumming sense of panic, and the early hour, even that took a while to understand. Then he looked down at the mess and recognized it as eggs and _damn it, that was his favourite bowl, too._

After a moment to mourn the loss, Jack looked up at the pair with a wide smile.

“Aww. Kid.” Jack walked over and pulled Albert into a headlock. “Ain’t you the sweetest.”

Albert wrestled out of the hold. “Fuck off.”

Jack put his hands over his heart. “An angel in human form.”

“But–” They looked over to where Charlie was still standing in the doorframe. The hand that was not on his cane was now covering his eyes. “How did you even–”

“As it turns out,” Elmer said, “when you are whisking eggs quickly, you should hold the bowl.”

Albert covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, _shut up!_ ”

Mush snorted. It turned into a yawn.

Charlie sighed. “Is there coffee?”

“Yep. And we did manage to make toast.” Elmer pointed to a pile of brown-gold slices of bread to illustrate.

“I’m so proud,” Charlie said, pushing his hair back.

Jack snorted and went to the small closet beside the door. He pulled out a rag, and the brush and dustpan.

“Alright you two, clean this up,” he said, tossing the former at Elmer and handing the latter two to Albert. “I’ll finish up once you're done.”

“Sorry,” Albert mumbled.

“Hey, you managed toast and coffee! Two outa three’s real good, especially on a first try.”

He was rewarded with that small smile Albert only got when he was really pleased and didn’t want to be obvious about it. Damn if the sight didn’t still make Jack’s heart sing. He’d break a thousand bowls for that smile.

Fuck, he must’ve still been a bit drunk. He wasn’t usually such a sap sober.

He turned to Charlie and jerked his head towards the neighbouring apartment. “Chuck, you wanna go get those two assholes up?”

“Fine.”

“How the hell could they have slept through _that?_ ” Mush grumbled, sitting heavily at the table.

“They couldn’t’ve,” Jack said. He grabbed his trousers from his pile of clothes and pulled them on. “They woke up but figured out what happened by the rest of the noise and then they both rolled over and went back to sleep to avoid helping us clean up or cook.”

Mush sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Five years living with you guys and that’s still spooky as hell.”

“Don’t worry. It wears off after ten,” Elmer said over the running tap.

Three taps at the front door.

“They’re coming,” Charlie said.

Jack shook his head as he pulled his suspenders up and on. “Did you ask them how they managed to sleep through these two sneaking out of their place with the eggs?”

“Figured I’d let you do the honours seeing as you’re gonna be cooking said eggs.”

“Eh, I’m feeling generous. Mush, you want a crack at it?”

“Jack if that was a fucking pun–”

“An accident, I promise. I know the rules.”

Charlie rolled his eyes but let it slide. Elmer passed him a mug of coffee with cream already in it and a slice of toast loaded with jam as a thank-you.

Jack let himself get lost in the familiar rhythm of these shared mornings—Charlie settling himself in the armchair, finishing his breakfast quickly before picking up his latest book, while Mush sat at the table with his head propped up by his hand, half-dozing. After they’d cleaned up their mess, Albert and Elmer also returned to their usual roles, Elmer putting the plates, mugs, and cutlery on the table while Albert grabbed the cream, sugar, jam, and peanut butter. Jack, meanwhile, set the butter to melt in the pan. He cracked the eggs into his second-favourite bowl with a splash of milk, a generous amount of salt and pepper, and a spoonful of butter from the pan. He restrained himself to only _looking_ pointedly at Albert while he whisked them. Albert still flipped him off.

True to form, Race and Spot came in after everything was done and Jack was putting the eggs on the table.

“Hey fellas,” Mush greeted, “did you lose something this morning? Two somethings? Two somethings that snuck out with a third something?”

Race raised his hands in surrender. “In our defence we didn’t think Al _could_ be quiet.”

“ _Hey!_ ” Albert said. “What about Elmer?”

“Elmer could walk past an alley of starving mutts with sausage links wrapped ‘round his neck and steaks in each of his pockets and they wouldn’t even peek outta the gutter. For all we know, he’s sneaking out every night.”

They all turned to the boy in question.

The boy in question took a sip of coffee and said: “Pass the eggs, please?”

After all the craziness, breakfast was quick and quiet. It was a habit ingrained into him, Race, Charlie, and Elmer from their days in the orphanage. It was one of the few they didn’t bother trying to break, considering Mush already took forever to eat and chatting through meals meant his food went cold and Spot was a prickly bastard at the best of times and early hours did not help. Albert also wasn’t all that great at mornings—Jack would have to bug him later to find out _why_ he thought the whole _breakfast thing_ was a good plan.

Race reached for more toast. He winced and rubbed at his neck.

Jack honed in on the action. “Is it getting bad again?”

He grimaced but shook his head. “Just slept on it wrong, don’t worry about it.”

Charlie snorted.

Jack narrowed his eyes and set his mug down. “Anthony Racetrack Higgins, if you’re trying to tough it out again, I swear to god-”

“I ain’t!”

“Spot?”

“I got my eye on it, don’t worry,” he assured Jack. “And so do the kids. He’s not getting away with _shit._ ”

“We ain’t _kids!_ ” Albert protested.

Race put his hand to his heart. “You turned the boys _against me?_ ”

“You’re lucky I don’t keep you tied to a chair after last time,” Spot grumbled.

“We don’t have any extra chairs. You’d just lock me in the basement.”

“ _Hey–_ ”

“Huh? Oh, sorry Chuck.”

“Christ, it’s _fine_ ,” Charlie huffed. “And I’d loan you the chair.”

“If he’s sitting, we won’t have to catch him when he faints,” Mush said.

Spot turned back to Race. “Ha.”

Race threw up his hands. “I’m not gonna _faint._ ”

“That’s what you said last time. You remember what happened last time?”

“That wasn’t _my_ fault.”

“It was.”

“How was I supposed to know it would make me dizzy?”

“Well maybe if you’d listened to me–”

“Jack, when was the car supposed to pick you up at your apartment?” Charlie interrupted.

“Uh…” Jack finished his coffee and got up to grab the letter from his coat pocket to double-check. “Eight.”

“It’s seven-thirty.”

“SHIT!”

He vaguely registered Mush and Albert laughing at him.

“Shit.” He ran his hand through his hair, looking around the room in the hopes that the means to suddenly get him back to his place would appear like magic if he panicked hard enough. “ _Shit._ ”

He heard the distinct and familiar sound of a book closing with a snap and Charlie’s disappointed sigh. “Jack, get changed here then run. Your trousers are fine. Borrow Mush’s nice shirt. Spot, tell me you still have the grey vest this idiot left behind last week.”

“I’ll get it,” Race said, getting up and taking his toast with him.

“Are they gonna feed you?” Elmer asked. “Why am I asking? You definitely don’t know. I’m making you a sandwich.”

“Albert, go grab one of my notebooks and pens so that it at least _looks_ like he’s prepared.”

“Sure,” Albert said through a mouthful.

Mush put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from getting up to do so. “He brought his bag over last night, he’s fine.”

“At least he has one thing straight,” Charlie said with a sigh.

One day Jack was going to buy them all a mansion. A big mansion, with separate rooms for each of them. And he was gonna make sure Charlie had an entire damn library all for himself. No, wait: _two_ libraries.

“Charlie Morris, you are a _saint._ ”

“Martyr’s more accurate,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Christ, I bet _Kensett’s_ dealer never had to deal with this shit.”

“Who?” Albert asked.

Jack froze.

Now, Jack didn’t set out in life thinking he was gonna become an older-brother-almost-father-figure to two teenage boys by the age of twenty-four, but sometimes shit happened. Sometimes you’re set to leave the orphanage with your best pals in the world and you realize you can’t leave behind the kid you’ve practically _raised_ so you sort of kidnap a twelve-year-old. And sometimes that twelve-year-old grows up and you find out just how much he’s picked up from you when he drags another kid in off the street and announces he’s gonna live with you now too.

Still, Jack and the others did their best. They fed them, they clothed them, and damn if they didn’t do their best to make sure they knew they loved them. And, yeah, they screwed up some, but Albert still had the biggest heart even though he had almost no tact and Elmer had somehow managed to actually have _manners_ and none of them could figure out how the fuck _that_ had happened. In any case, they did their best and they were good kids—they were real _good_ kids—and Jack was sure that no matter how many paintings he sold or how famous he got they would always be the best thing he ever had any part in making.

But some days he was reminded just how much he was scrambling to try and raise them right. And, as always, his shortcomings only became truly glaring when he was confronted with all that he’d forgotten.

“You don’t know _John Frederick Kensett?_ ”

“Run, Albert,” Mush said.

Albert’s eyes were wide. “What? Why?”

“Jack,” Charlie said. He had apparently resigned himself once more to the human disaster Jack was because his book was once again open on his lap. “Get shaved, get dressed and, _if_ you have time, _then_ you can do the Kensett spiel.”

Jack groaned loudly, but he knew not to argue. “Fine. But, Albert?” He grabbed him by the shoulders and turned the boy, his brother in all but name, to face him so that he could look down upon his confused face in unspeakable sorrow. “I am sorry I have failed you.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” Albert said.

“ _Jack._ ”

He groaned and made his way into the washroom that adjoined the bedroom, grabbing Mush’s shaving kit with another huff.

_Who’s John Frederick Kensett._ Christ.

Just as he was upcapping the aftershave, he heard three soft taps on the doorframe and looked up to see Race setting the vest down on Charlie’s bed and grabbing the shirt from the wardrobe.

“Thanks, Race,” he said, pouring the heavy-scented liquid into his palm.

“Course, Cowboy,” he said. He set the shirt beside the vest and perched on the edge of Mush’s bed. “Gotta make sure you look pretty to meet your gal. Remember, though, don’t flirt with the client.”

Jack rolled his eyes as he patted his cheeks and winced at the sting. “I’m not gonna flirt with Miss Pulitzer.”

”You flirted with her Ma.”

“I did _not._ ”

“Did too.”

Jack rolled his eyes but let it stop there. No one beat Race in a back-and-forth. It was a fact of life.

He returned the shaving kit—put back exactly in order because Mush was easy-going except for a few things and _you have to respect a man’s razors_ —and then opened the third drawer down.

Jack raised his voice to call out: “Chuck, you got a tie I can wear?”

“Third drawer down in the dresser, left side!”

"Thanks!”

“Hey… this guy. The driver, I mean. Uh… what did you say his name was again?”

He looked up at the hesitancy in Race’s voice, the tone so at odds with… everything about one of Jack’s oldest friends. Race was staring out the small window. The drapes were still mostly closed though, so it was clearly just to avoid looking at Jack. He picked absently at the loose threads of Mush’s battered quilt.

Jack turned back around and dug through the three ties, giving Race space to ask the questions he didn’t know how to ask.

“Jacobs,” he said, trying to think more about his grey vest—which meant… navy with silver stripes it was—than the worry in Race’s eyes.

“Right, Jacob.”

“No, _Jacobs_ ,” he corrected as he tossed the tie onto the bed and closed the drawer.

“Okay…” Race drew out the word long.

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know his first name.”

Race’s face twisted into the complicated expression that somehow always managed to say _how are you this dumb_ without a word. “Did you not _ask?_ ”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed!” Jack defended as he grabbed the shirt. “You know how many rules those folks seem to have?”

“Fine. This _Jacobs,_ he a good driver?”

Jack shrugged. “So far.”

“ _So far_ ain’t much of a comfort.”

“He drove me one day, Race. For three hours, sure, but that's still not much time to judge. And you know I don’t know shit about driving.” He tucked the shirt in, pulled up his suspenders and started buttoning. “Cufflinks?”

“Couldn’t find them. And you know enough to tell when someone’s screwing up, so don’t give me that shit excuse.” He went back to picking at the loose threads. After a moment he said, voice firm: “The second this Jacobs screws up, though, you let me know, okay? I can probably start picking up more Long Island deliveries—not like Finch would mind minding the garage more.”

“Not a chance. And, anyways, don’t worry about it.” Jack grabbed the vest and shrugged it on. “He really does seem like a good driver. I think he looked away from the road twice and that was ‘cause I bothered him.”

“You were _distracting him?_ ”

Jack looked up sharply as he finished doing up his vest.

Race’s eyes were blown wide, his brows scrunched, his mouth half-open, a picture of offence and fear and _anger–_

Jack thought back on what he said. His blood ran cold.

“No. _Shit._ No, Race, I wasn’t. I promise. I just asked a few polite questions. It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh.” The tension bled out of his shoulders as he sighed gustily. He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Race didn’t say anything to that. He just handed Jack the tie, not looking up. Jack took it gently. He turned around to tie it, giving Race privacy as he pulled himself back together.

After he heard his breathing even, Jack turned back around. Race looked a bit better but he was still a half-shade pale.

Jack sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Race, seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“We’re _good,_ okay?”

He sighed. “Okay.”

“Look,” Jack said, pulling him up to stand, “If you’re still feeling real bad you can get me another cup of coffee.”

Race smirked. _There he was._ “Oh, the master wants _two_ cups of coffee now, huh?”

“I paid for it!” Jack protested, following after Race as he re-entered the main room.

“And I paid for the eggs. You don’t see me going for seconds.”

“You had four pieces of toast,” Charlie said.

“One of these days you’re going to tell me how you do that,” Mush said.

“I will take my secrets to the grave.”

Both of them were looking after Race with concern, though. They turned to Jack, and he shook his head. Mush grimaced and Charlie squinted, but both let it lie, Mush returning to his food, Charlie to his reading.

Race poured the coffee into Jack’s mug at the table, then turned to where Spot was folding the couch back up.

“Hey, cufflinks?”

Spot gave the monstrosity one last shove into place and grunted: “I polished them the other day. I must’ve left them with Mush’s watch.”

“Aww, Spot, you sweetheart.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Spot said as he went into the bedroom to find them.

“Jack.”

He looked over at Elmer’s voice, then looked down at his bag and coat, which Elmer was holding out.

“Geez, thanks Elmer.”

“Of course,” He answered.

Jack pulled his coat on. It was probably the best thing he’d ever bought, wool with fine checks, fully lined and somehow warm enough and breathable enough that he could wear it through most of spring and fall without having to crack out his heavy overcoat or strip down to his vest. When he’d bought it, it had been just new enough that the tailor tried to warn him off it— _it will never catch on, sir, are you sure you wouldn’t like to look at our frock coat patterns?_ —but Jack stuck to his guns and it paid off within a year.

Just as he got his second arm through his sleeve, someone grabbed him from the back, around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides.

Albert’s voice was right next to his ear. “Got him.”

Elmer pulled out a comb and wet it at the sink.

“Hey, no– NO!” Jack protested—he didn’t squawk, he _didn’t_ —dropping his bag as he tried to fight out of the kid’s surprisingly strong grip.

“Has to be done,” Elmer said calmly, yanking the comb so deep Jack could feel the teeth scratching his scalp.

“It won’t _do_ anything!” _Fuck,_ that water was _cold._

“Not the way you do it, Jack. Sometimes violence begets results.”

“You know, I think Elmer’s right,” Charlie said. “It’s looking good from here.”

“Oh, laugh it up.”

Mush and Race took that as permission and laughed loudly as Jack was finally released to grab his bag off the floor.

“You’re both such little–”

“We’re at least as tall as you.”

“Albert you’re already on _thin ice–_ ”

“Hey, this one was Elmer’s idea!”

“You _snitch._ ”

“Oh, are we talking about _snitching_ now?”

“Argue later. Jack’s still not out the door and he’s gonna have to sprint now,” Charlie said. “Fuck, why do _I_ have to be the practical one?”

As he pulled the strap over his head, Jack said: “I really am sorry about all this.”

“C’mon, Kelly, it’s not like we’re not used to this crap.” Jack looked up just in time to catch the small bits of metal Spot tossed at his head. “Lose those, lose your hands.”

“Shut up Spot,” Jack said automatically, putting one in his lips while he fiddled the other through his cuff. Around the cufflink, he said, “Okay, so I oughta be done around two since I ain’t painting today. I’ll be back by five. You gonna be here, Chuck?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“Course. Don’t forget your good hat again.”

“Right. Where’d I–”

“On the hook. Don’t flirt–”

“I’m not gonna–”

“And try to finish the math for the material stipend while you’re scoping out–”

“I’ve got the catalogue in my bag.”

“Elmer has also put your lunch in your bag.”

“Thanks–”

“Get the soap off your jaw.”

“ _Shit._ That do it?”

“Yep. And Jack?”

He looked over as he finished wiping at his jaw and dropped his hand to his side. “Yeah?”

Charlie marked his page with an old envelope, closed the book, and set it on his lap. “You’re telling the driver to pick you up here in the mornings from now on. You can stay the night, you can make your way over on the rare day you don’t, I don’t care, but we are _not_ fucking doing this again.”

Jack smiled. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you lately, Chuck?”

“Well you were pretty damn near close to drunk yesterday so yes. Many times.”

“Still, I appreciate you. You’re the best business partner an artist could ever ask for and a top-notch friend–”

“Jack. Your ride!” Spot snapped out.

“Shut up Spot,” Jack said automatically. “Wait. Right.” He turned on his heel, drank his coffee in three big gulps, and set it down with a slam.

“Hat!”

He grabbed the hat from the hook and stuffed it over his still-wet hair.

“I’m off!”

“About time,” they chorused.

“I hate you all!” he shot back, and with that he was out the door.

..........

Jack skidded around the corner, saw the car in front of his building, and immediately felt like the worst person in the world.

No time for self-pity, though. He’d kept him waiting long enough.

Jack ran up to the passenger door and took a moment to see if Jacobs was inside, and… yep. He was staring out the front window. He was also still stupid pretty.

“Morning!”

Jacobs startled _violently._

“Shit! Sorry!”

Even though his chest was heaving and his eyes were closed, Jacobs swallowed and said, in a surprisingly measured tone: “It’s no trouble, sir. Good morning.”

“Morning.” Wait, he’d already said that. “Uh… how are you?”

Jacobs blinked, startled again—at least this time it didn’t look like he’d lost three years of his life with the shock. “I am well, thank you. How are you?”

Jack grimaced and shrugged as he hopped in. “Well, I’m feeling real bad for keeping you waiting but besides that I’m pretty good. If it’s okay, could you pick me up somewhere else in the mornings? I can write down the address; I got a pen and stuff now so I can give it to you on the drive, or we can wait until tonight. Your choice. But it’ll save you from having to wait on me again.”

He looked over to find Jacobs looking even more stunned. For probably the first time in his life, Jack hoped it was because of his general fast-talking awkwardness. He suspected it was more the apology—judging by every reaction he’d seen from him so far, someone needed to subject Jacobs to enough common courtesy that it actually started feeling, you know, _common._

“I– I haven’t been waiting long.” He swallowed and his face twitched in a series of movements—scrunched brows, blinks, slight frowns—that Jack couldn’t understand beyond _not happy._ “Wouldn’t you prefer to sit in the back, sir?”

What? _Oh._ He’d forgotten about that.

“Uh… not really?” he confessed. “If it’s okay?”

“Certainly, sir.”

If Jack was going by his voice alone, he’d think that was the case, but judging by his posture…

“I know it’s not, you know, _correct,_ ” Jack said quickly, “and I’m real sorry about that. The issue is…uh–” _damn it, there really was no way to say this and sound attractive_ “–sometimes I get sick when I sit in the back? I didn’t last time which was a miracle, but I also hadn’t really eaten anything and I just ate so…”

“Oh.” Jacobs was still the sort of uncomfortable that was hard to look at, but his brows softened in understanding. “Of course, sir.”

Jack figured he should save the _hey, this whole calling me ‘sir’ thing also makes me sick to my stomach_ for another day. It was looking like he’d have to break the rules slowly. Ease his way into it.

“Right. Good. Uh. Do I need to do anything?”

Jacobs pressed his lips together tight for a moment before he said: “Perhaps close the door?”

Jack had hoped that the second impression would be the charm. He had plans; ask after Jacobs’s well-being, talk about the weather, maybe find out more about the guy. Not to _flirt_ , of course. He knew he didn’t really have a shot. Besides, flirting with someone that was being forced to spend about six hours a day with you for most weekdays for the coming months was a sure ticket to an earful and an ass-kicking if any of the other guys found out about it. But, you know, since he was gonna be spending _six hours a day most weekdays for the coming months_ with the guy, Jack figured, hey, it would be a good idea to make friends. And he was gonna start down that path this morning—use the drive as a chance to really sell the whole _I can function as a person, don’t worry!_ angle.

It looked like any hope to prove the contrary now rested on his third attempt to act somewhat competent in the face of the pretty, jumpy, and terrifyingly well-mannered driver.

“Can do,” Jack said, and did so.

He settled into his seat as Jacobs started the car and turned neatly onto the road.

“So, uh…” Jack said. “Nice day out.”

The sky was the sort of dingy grey that seeped the vibrancy out of every colour, and the wind was on the nippy side of cold.

“Yes, sir,” Jacobs said.

“…Might rain?”

“Yes, I believe it might, sir.”

“Yeah. Not good for looking around the grounds, but, hey, I think it’ll only be a drizzle and drizzles ain’t half bad so long as you can duck under something for a bit, right?”

Jack suddenly remembered that Jacobs probably spent most of the day under the car hood or in the garage.

“Anyways,” he said, too loud, “How about I write down that new address for you, my bag is just–” he shifted to try and grab his bag out from where he had accidentally lodged it between the seat and the door “–just a sec–”

A sharp gasp from the driver’s side halted his attempts.

Jacobs was stiff as a board, shoulders a tense line even under the heavy wool of his uniform. His jaw was tight, muscle jumping at the spot where it softened to meet his neck. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

“You okay?” Jack said tentatively.

“Yes,” Jacobs snapped.

Now _Jack_ startled. “Oh. Okay. Uh… sorry.”

“No,” Jacobs said quickly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I– I’m sorry for my tone, sir. I didn’t mean to–”

“No it’s uh… it’s not… it’s all good. I’ll just.”

An echo of a terrified and angry voice piped up from the back of his mind. _You were distracting the driver?!_

Race would _kill him_ if he were here now.

“I, uh… sorry,” Jack took off his hat and ran his hands through his still-damp hair. “I don’t mean to bug you or distract you or nothing. I can be quiet if that would help?”

Jacobs swallowed heavily, then nodded once, sharp.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Can do.”

Jack looked out the window and pretended not to notice the suffocating tension and the fact that Jacobs clearly would rather be anywhere else in the world than sitting beside him.

..........

His arrival at the Pulitzer estate felt eerily familiar for only having been there once before. Bunsen the Butler still looked at him like his presence was an offence. Vince the Footman still got that annoyed twitch in his left eye the minute Jack slipped up. Benjamin the Footman was still smiley and still did not look one bit a Benjamin. The only difference was that he didn’t feel like he needed to wave the contract in their faces to make sure they didn’t kick him off the property.

Also, they had him wait for the Pulitzers in the _watercolour room_ instead of the _drawing room._

Far as Jack could tell, neither had anything to do with either medium, but he let it lie.

It was another nice room—cream-coloured wallpaper and rug, dark wood, chairs he was nervous to sit in, same as the last one. He liked this room better, though, because the back wall was filled with tall windows and windowed doors that led out to a stone porch overlooking the grounds—a close-cut field of grass cut with pathways reaching out to the distance, and a huge garden. The garden was ordered strictly, all straight stone paths and trimmed hedges and carefully arranged beds. Splashes of colour showed that some of the flowers were already starting to bloom. It seemed pretty early for that to be the case, but Jack didn’t pretend to know anything about flowers and suspected that the Pulitzers had people that knew way too much about flowers to make sure they could see blooms in the dead of winter if they wanted to.

What interested Jack, though, was the forest that seemed to surround the property.

“Hey,” he asked Benjamin, who was once again waiting at the door.

Once again Benjamin jumped. “Yes sir?”

“The trees. Are they part of the estate?”

Benjamin craned his neck to see where Jack was pointing, “Some are, sir, but I’m afraid if you want to know more you’ll have to ask the Pulitzers or the groundskeeper.”

“Sure. Thanks,” he said.

A dimpled grin. A little cheeky this time, so he must have figured out what Jack was doing. He knew he’d like this guy.

Voices came from down the hall. Benjamin snapped back to perfect posture and Jack stepped away from the windows.

Bunsen the Butler arrived once more, followed by Mrs. Pulitzer and two young ladies who could only be her daughters.

“Mr. Kelly, how wonderful to see you once more,” She said with a smile.

He smiled back wide, “You took the words right out of my mouth, Ma’am.”

Jack let his eyes drift to the girls—both had their mother’s neatly-arched brows and thin-bridged nose. Both were dressed in shades of blue, and their auburn hair was piled up in picture-perfect versions of those complicated styles Jack had never managed to figure out. One was a slip of a gal and a good two inches shorter than her sister, who was full-figured. Jack hoped the taller one was Katherine because she was a real stunner. She’d be a joy to paint, too, with her round rosy cheeks and delicately pointed to her chin. Her eyes, though, were the clincher—dark brown and sharp, flicking up and down Jack’s person, not excited like her sister’s but _evaluating_. She was a smart girl, Jack could tell, and Jack liked smart girls.

Mrs. Pulitzer smiled and gestured to them in turn: “These are my daughters, Constance and Katherine.”

Jack didn’t cheer, but it was a near thing.

“It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

“The pleasure is all ours, Mr. Kelly,” Constance said, presenting her hand, which he kissed obligingly. “I had the privilege of seeing your show in Macbeth galleries with my fiancé. You truly are a master.”

Wait, so _this_ was the daughter who…

Jack pasted on a smile and lied through his teeth: “Thank you, Miss. I am always happy to meet those who have seen my portrait series.”

She smiled back, and he hoped his grin looked as genuine as hers. “As soon as I saw them I told my father to snap you up; I said ‘father, this Kelly fellow is the next great painter and you _must_ get him to do your portrait,’ and he didn’t listen, of course, but at least now he has finally come to his senses.”

She said the whole thing in one breath. It was very impressive.

“ _Constance,_ ” her mother said with an edge of amusement, “let’s not scare the poor man.”

Constance blushed. Her smile flattened to a tight line.

“Well, I’m never one to refuse a compliment, Ma’am,” Jack said quickly, now trying for a smile somewhere between comforting and playful, probably landing somewhere between in that vague nice zone. “And I will take _next great painter_ any day. Thank you, Miss.”

Her blush went darker, but he was sure it was for a different reason.

“You are too kind, Mr. Kelly,” Mrs. Pulitzer said.

Jack smiled and turned to the other Young Miss Pulitzer, nodding his head in greeting. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Katherine. I expect we’ll get to know each other quite well.”

She smiled, closed-mouth, and said, “Yes, we will, Mr. Kelly. I look forward to better making your acquaintance.”

Her tone was a practiced sort of kind. A pit opened in Jack’s stomach.

“As do I, Miss Katherine.”

“I understand you’ve arranged for me to do the sittings on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

“If that works for you, Miss.”

“It does. How thoughtful of you to check with me.”

“ _Katherine_ ,” Mrs. Pulitzer said. “Come now, darling, we wouldn’t want Mr. Kelly to feel unwelcome.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Katherine said, “I was only referring to earlier when you all coordinated this and were so kind as to confirm my availability.”

Her mother’s smile wavered. “Well if that is all–”

“Of course, Mother. My deepest apologies, Mr. Kelly, I truly didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong in your conduct.”

Jack told himself he was imagining the emphasis on the _your._ “You didn’t, Miss. And please let me know if you need to change any of the sittings. I might do the same—really, considering that my part in this is partly determined by the weather, I’ll probably be the more difficult one to work with.”

“Well, the weather can prove quite changeable this time of year,” Katherine agreed. “However, I understand that we are not doing a sitting today because you wanted a tour of the grounds?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“Certainly not. I’d never dream of getting in the way of your artistic process.”

Mrs. Pulitzer’s smile dropped entirely at the words.

“We could accompany you if you’d like,” Constance offered, seemingly oblivious to the storm developing around her.

“No, it’s alright,” Jack said quickly. “But… Mrs. Pulitzer, perhaps another time you’d be so generous as to show me some of your favourite locations on the property.”

She turned away from her daughter, icy glare melting into a warm smile. “It would be my pleasure. Benjamin, have Seitz give Mr. Kelly a tour of the grounds.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied immediately.

Jack suddenly realized he’d been watching the whole conversation with rapt attention.

“Thank you. And, again, it is a pleasure to meet you both,” Jack said to the Miss Pulitzers with a slight bow, then turned and bowed to their mother, “and it was good to see you again, Mrs. Pulitzer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelly. We are glad to have you here.”

Katherine didn’t say a word but her eyes assured him that her mother’s sentiment only applied to two of the women in the room.

..........

The groundskeeper took him around the house. He took him through the gardens. He took him down the dirt paths into parts of the forest that were part of the Pulitzer’s estate.

Jack tried to listen to his running commentary, but he was too distracted and Seitz was too excited about _perennials_ for him to get more than a few sentences out of the books-worth of information.

He seemed nice, though, and offered to let Jacobs know Jack would be ready to go soon so that Jack could take a moment to “admire the foliage.”

As soon as the sound of Seitz’s heavy footsteps faded, Jack sat down heavily on a fallen log.

He’d known the job wouldn’t be easy. He wasn’t an idiot. Jobs were always hard. Paintings never came together in a flash of light, and rarely through steady progress. He knew he’d struggle. He knew there’d be days he wanted to throw his brushes down, scream, slash the canvas, start over. He’d dealt with those days before and he’d deal with them again.

But he’d dealt with them with…

For all the things that he’d had to get used to in his life, loneliness wasn’t really one of them. Well, sort of. He’d _felt_ lonely. He’d felt unwanted and unnecessary. But he’d never really been _alone._ Close family, overcrowded orphanage, busy theatre, tight quarters with the boys, larger quarters with even more boys. Even now that he had his own place—where he could paint without folks giggling at the expressions he’d get or complaining about the smell—he still spent most of his time _with_ people. Charlie would come over to talk about budgets; he would visit Race in the garage or meet Mush for lunch when he was really stuck; Albert and Elmer would find an excuse to come say hi or he’d find an excuse to go say hi; Spot would bring him every empty can they collected, washed spotless, with grumbles of _this is the last damn time I’m going this, Kelly._

With all that he’d never really had to _work_ alone either. He would set a table up for when Charlie came over, and Charlie would get him to take breaks by whacking at his legs with his cane until he sat down. Race and Mush would tease him when he stopped by— “Maybe this is it, Jack, maybe you just can’t paint anymore. You had a good run. Twenty-four years ain’t nothing to scoff at” —and then ask him questions until he realized what was off. When the boys came over, Elmer would laugh while Albert called out increasingly weird drawing requests, and they’d leave with handfuls of scrap paper and Jack would be left with a smile that hurt his cheeks. When Spot came by, he would look at the canvas, point out a mistake Jack had missed, and left smirking as Jack swore violently. Sometimes, though, he’d point out a detail he _liked,_ smirked at Jack’s stunned expression, and left while Jack was still frozen.

None of that was going to happen here.

It would have been nice if they’d included the line “P.S. our daughter has no interest in being painted and is not afraid to make that very clear, good luck!” but he supposed there was no way to say that maintain the obliging attitude that had made even Charlie tip his head to the side and say _Maybe…_

Christ, what had all that even _been?_

No. Nope. He was there to _paint._ Nothing more. He couldn’t make it into anything more than that.

He couldn’t think about it. If he tried to get to the bottom of these folks’ obvious issues he’d be stepping into a trap. He’d accidentally stepped in for a second and immediately felt lost in the maze of half-said insults, warm greetings, and cold shoulders. He just had to take everything at surface-value. Trying to see beyond the pleasant surface would mean seeing the ugliness lurking in the cracks. And it was a deep ugliness; that much was already clear. And they'd adapted to it, grown around it, left it to fester. Jack knew from experience how hard it was to fix those sorts of things. He doubted they even wanted to fix it. And who the hell was he to convince them to try?

He’d signed the contract already. He couldn’t back out. He just had to do everything he could to make this job as tolerable as it could be.

And somehow he’d already managed to make it so that the two people he would be spending most of his days with didn’t want to be near him, much less talk to him.

Maybe this was a good thing. Artists were supposed to be lonely. Be _reclusive._ A step out from the crowd, seeing things others didn’t. People had already assumed all that about him—he knew this from the many uncomfortable conversations in front of his paintings, the ones where folks pointed out things he hadn’t really been doing, making him feel kind of sick and kind of sad that they _could_ even see such things in work he’d created.

Jack wasn’t used to being lonely.

He’d have to get used to it.

He took a deep breath, pulled out his sketchbook, jotted down a few notes about stretcher dimensions, and then stuffed it back in his bag and stood to leave, more than ready to return home to his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of research I did for genuinely inconsequential things in this chapter is _absurd._
> 
> Speaking of which, David’s uniform is similar to Branson’s from Downton Abbey, with breeches, a double-breasted vest white collared shirt, a tie, and a jacket with a plastron front. I say this to give you a proper visual because Jack doesn’t know enough about clothes to do so and to use the word plastron, which I spent _three fucking days_ trying to find, only to give up and set my mother on the search path. She did so in fifteen minutes. Please send fond thoughts out to the void for her, she deserves them.


	3. The First Sitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your continued support of this story! 
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: none.

Jack swept his brush along the thick line of charcoal he just laid, softening it into a hazy suggestion of form, and wondered at what point in his life he’d done something so bad as to deserve all this.

He was in good company for such thoughts because at least two of the other three people in the room seemed to be asking themselves the exact same thing.

As soon as he’d arrived, he’d suspected the day was not going to go _great._ Mrs. Pulitzer had greeted him on the front step and told him her daughter was ready for him in the Drawing room. Her expression was sweet. Her shoulders had been so stiff he could see the lines of her throat through the lace collar of her dress. She’d told Benjamin to take him in and then marched down the front steps to where Jacobs was already holding the door open for her. She’d said something at him that Jack couldn’t make out. Jacobs had nodded, shut the door gently as soon as her skirts had been lifted out of danger, and circled back around to the driver’s seat.

Jacobs had looked more tense than Jack had ever seen him and that was saying something.

So that was the first hint.

Then he had entered the drawing room to… quite a scene. The scene he was still in, actually, because somehow everyone in the room _except him_ seemed to be completely frozen in their tasks, postures, and positions.

Constance was perched on the settee, pale blue dress stark against the leather cushions. She had looked up from her embroidery the moment he entered and smiled warmly, greeting him and nodding her head to where a large swath of canvas had been laid over the rug with a plain wooden chair and table sitting on top of it. Then she’d dropped her head back down and continued to embroider quietly, paying little to no attention to anything going on around her.

Katherine was sitting on the reclining couch. Well, _Katherine was arranged on the reclining couch_ might be a more accurate description—she was in a perfect recline, one arm over the back of the couch while the other was draped across the skirt of her very fancy dress.

And it really was a very fancy dress. It was mostly made from a heavy dark blue material. He was pretty sure it was velvet, but he suspected it was a fancier lighter type of fabric. The skirt fell in weighty drapes that caught the cool light from the windows and the warm glow from the electric lamps that studded the walls. It was fitted around her waist with a heavy sash in the same blue fabric, while the bodice was looser. Well, the blue fabric on the bodice was loose, coming down to meet the sash in a v-shaped neckline that probably would have been real daring if it weren’t for the lace underneath it that climbed to a high collar—Jack had been immediately reminded of the dresses her mother always seemed to be wearing. The blue fabric also opened to reveal lace on the sleeves, and lace trimmed the cuffs of the dress as well.

It fit her like a glove. The blue brought out the red tones of her hair and the cream-coloured lace was a few shades lighter than her complexion. It had clearly been made for her. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if it had been made for this occasion.

She made for a real pretty picture if you managed to ignore the fact that she was looking at near everyone in the room like she was a second away setting them on fire and warming her hands over their smouldering corpses.

 _Near_ everyone because she also kept sending Benjamin pleading eyes and aggravated grimaces when she thought Jack wasn’t looking. She was probably doing it when he actually wasn’t looking, too. Hell, those looks might’ve been _worse._

It was probably fair since, though he’d tried not to, Jack knew he hadn’t been sending her the friendliest glances either. He was trying, though, and that ought to count for something.

Benjamin, the poor bastard, was tasked with watching the whole thing. Jack didn’t think he was enjoying the job.

Jack straightened to see around his board, double-checking the line of the curl that was swept up from the nape of her neck, and– yep. Another grimace.

With a single sweep of his charcoal he finished off her hair. He darkened the line that traced her profile. He took the sketch off the board—featureless, expressionless, unfinished—and dropped it down into his portfolio.

“Would you like to shift the pose?” Jack offered.

She didn’t even try to smile. “No thank you, Mr. Kelly.”

“Are you… are you sure you’re _comfortable_ like that, Miss Katherine?”

“Yes.”

She had unclenched her jaw before she said it so technically she wasn’t lying through her teeth.

Jack did not sigh. Because he was a professional, damn it.

“I’ll do one more sketch and then tomorrow we can start on the colour studies. That sound okay?”

“Whatever pleases you, Mr. Kelly.”

Oh, for the love of– now what the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean?

He sighed. “Okay.”

He tacked the new sheet of paper up on his board and peeked around to see her once more.

After spending the last three hours looking at the same pose, he was pretty sure he could draw it with his eyes closed. Only the general pose, though—the angles, shapes, and lines that never really changed. But the details shifted with every minute. The sun rose a little higher then started descending, shifting the shadows. Her fingers twitched and flattened against her skirt. After an hour her shoulders had started to tremble with the strain of holding her position. Jack had pretended to duck out because she was being ridiculous and apparently thought a _break_ would be a sign of defeat in whatever silent war that she was playing against him.

Her face changed the most.

Three-quarter turn, a classic. Jack mapped out the shape in quick light lines—circle for the crown, line down the centre, angle of the jaw. Imprecise but accurate.

Blocks of shading next, just light fields of straight lines at first. Side of the head, fix the profile, lay out the shape more. Then shadow of her brow, deeper shadows at the edges of her sockets, the side of her nose, underneath the nose, small cast shadow, the soft line of her cheekbones under her round cheeks, the furrow between her brows. He mapped out the shape of her hair and the lower half of her ear, then darkened the shape.

He leaned back and looked around the board. Her expression was once again schooled to neutrality—it had been a solid mask of pleasant neutrality when they had started—but it hadn’t been a moment ago.

Jack rolled his eyes and grabbed his brush, softening the blocks into a haze.

He darkened the background first. It immediately made the rest of the drawing too light, but if he knew if he didn’t force himself out, he’d be stuck in the half-tones. The dark ground also let him determine the lines of her neck and brought her profile to the forefront. Another sweep of his brush softened it from black to dark grey. Some of the charcoal flew up off the page and onto his sleeve.

It was a good thing Spot threw him his smock before he left. He wasn’t gonna tell him, of course.

He’d probably still know.

Eraser in his left hand, charcoal in his right, brush behind his ear, he corrected and solidified the clouds into a woman. Darker shades beneath the nose, the chin, the brow, laid out and softened in quick succession so that the transition was gradual. Highlights on the chin, the centre of the lip, above the lip, tip of the nose, highest point of the cheeks, the temple, the centre of the forehead, small shapes made by pressing and lifting the gummy eraser on the charcoal, kneading it back to usability when the press just pressed more charcoal on the page. He picked up the stray grains with his thumb and wiped it on his rag.

Deeper shadows—near black—marked out her thick lashes and dark irises. Small dots of the white page peeking through showed their liveliness. He also darkened her nostrils, catching the slight flare, and the line of her tightly-pressed lips.

Pale thin loops suggested her high lace collar and dark loose lines approached her styled hair. Thicker lines marked out the style of the bodice, but he wasn’t fussy. It wasn’t the focus.

He returned to the eyes, darkening the lashes one last time, before he added in the arch of her brows, softening the edges with his thumb, put one last highlight between them, and leaned back once more.

Jack had never been a _great_ draftsman—Mr. Moyer always said his sketches were closer to Gibson than Raphael. They always would be. It was fine, of course. Jack wasn’t making his money off his sketches. And Gibson was more popular than Raphael these days so even if he did have to turn to that one day it would probably work out.

Jack also still got things wrong. He never got things right on the first try. Usually not even by the fifth. Here he’d messed up the angle of her nose, a tick too upturned at the tip. The shading of her cheekbones was too dark. The highlight above her lip should be softened.

What Jack lacked in precision, though, he always made up for in his ability to capture emotion. And, here, he’d managed to perfectly capture Miss Katherine’s air of resentment and suppressed frustration.

He unclipped the drawing and placed it into his portfolio with the rest.

“Thank you, Miss Katherine,” he said as he packed up his materials. “Are you still available for our session on Tuesday?”

“Yes,” she said tonelessly—over the hours she had also steadily lost the feigned cheer in her voice.

“I will see you then,” he replied, giving his hands one last ineffective wipe before he stuffed the rag into his bag and grabbed his easel up. “Or maybe we’ll run into each other tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

 _I would rather choke,_ her eyes said.

“Right,” he said, loud. “Okay.” He nodded to her. “Good day, Miss Katherine.” He turned and nodded to her sister: “Miss Constance.”

“Good day, Mr. Kelly. Would you like me to accompany you out?”

“No thank you, Miss. I mean… it looks like you’ve made real good progress there.” He pointed to the hoop she’d set aside, which was already half-filled with delicate blue flowers. “I wouldn’t dare interrupt.”

Constance smiled even brighter, light pink tinging her cheeks.

Jack looked back to Katherine.

She was glaring at him.

“Right,” he said, turning around. “Goodbye.”

“This way, sir,” Benjamin said.

Jack followed eagerly.

What a _day_. Near four hours and he had four pages of his book and five full sketches done and he wasn’t gonna be able to use _any_ of them. No wonder they’d been so generous about having him over for most of the week for four months, if he managed to salvage anything close to a successful portrait from this it was gonna be a goddamn miracle. And with all the stress and tension, well…

He was gonna get near six-thousand dollars for this job, sure, but he was gonna get an ulcer to top it off.

“Sir… are you alright?”

Jack startled out of his thoughts and turned to the footman. “What?”

“You’ve been… huffing.”

 _Whoops._ “Oh, yeah, no, I’m good. Great, really.”

His dimples popped. “Alright, then, sir.”

He opened the door and nodded at Jack to exit.

In a real change of pace Jacobs was not waiting with the car. Jack appreciated it for the fact that the last four hours or so had been spent in bone numbing monotony. Jack did not appreciate—nor was he going to think over—the sudden shock of worry that hit him with the sight of the empty driveway.

“Oh. Um…”

See, Jack was new to all of this but if even Benjamin was surprised, this was uncommon.

“Sir?”

They both jumped and turned in the direction of the voice.

“The voice” turned out to be a woman—a maid, judging by the grey-blue dress and the white apron and cap. A smirking maid. She was making her way up to them, carrying a glass of water on one hand and a white bundle in the other. She craned her neck to check in the windows, then hurried up the steps to stand beside them.

She was slim and tall—of height or maybe taller than Jack—with sharp features. A single strand of dark hair had escaped her carefully parted and pulled-back hair. The curl blew in the light breeze. Her eyes sparkled and her lips were twitching, showing that she knew _exactly_ what she had been doing when she scared the hell out of them just a moment ago.

She curtsied. “Hello, sir. David is getting the car prepared for your trip home. He will be out shortly.”

Before Jack could clarify any of that, Benjamin cut in: “I doubt he sent _you_ to tell us.”

She shrugged. “He sent me to tell someone and I figured this saved time.”

Benjamin sighed. “He told you to tell Vince, didn’t he?”

“Technically he told me to tell _you_ and, if I couldn’t find you, then I was to tell Vince. And I found you so it’s no trouble.”

“ _No trouble._ ”

“None.”

Benjamin sighed again, louder, and closed his eyes. “You know Bunsen will have a _fit_ if he finds out you came _out here_ to–”

“Well then it is a very good thing Bunsen won’t find out, isn’t it?” With that, the maid turned to Jack and held out a glass of water and what turned out to be a napkin “Here you are, sir. We thought you might enjoy something to tide you over for supper so that you are not too hungry on the drive.”

“ _Thank you._ ” Jack said, because they were right; he would like that because he was really damn hungry.

He propped his easel and portfolio against the side of the house so that he could take the offerings. He took a big drink of the water—draining most of the glass. The napkin turned out to actually be a napkin wrapped around a scone—still warm because of course it was. The maid took the glass back to allow him to split it in half. He munched the one half down in three quick bites and offered the other out to the two of them. Benjamin smiled and shook his head while the maid shook hers with a bemused expression.

Jack was struck with a very uncomfortable feeling that he had met her before.

“I’m sorry–” he wrapped the second half up in his handkerchief and pocketed it. He held out his hand. “Jack Kelly.”

The maid looked at him, amused.

_Pretty girl and you offer your hand like you’re saying hello to a dock worker? Real smooth, Kelly. Real smooth._

Before he could apologize and correct himself, though, she took his offered hand in a firm shake and grabbed the napkin out of his other hand.

“A pleasure, Mr. Kelly. My name is Sarah.”

Jack smiled wide. “A pleasure, Sarah. Now there is a very good chance I am going to regret this question but have we met before?”

Sarah laughed. “No, but I’ve been frequently told that I share a remarkable resemblance to my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“David Jacobs,” she clarified. “The chauffeur.”

_…Huh._

Jack could see echoes of the tense and quiet man in her face and expression. She looked softer, though; more curves than angles. Maybe it was her warm brown eyes and lighter hair—a reduced contrast. Maybe it was just that she looked like she’d gotten a decent amount of sleep.

_David. That’s a nice–_

Nope. No, he wasn’t doing that.

“That would be it,” he said, nodding. “It’s uh… it’s a very strong resemblance.”

“Twins,” Benjamin said.

“Oh. _Oh!_ ”

Sarah pursed her lips in that way folks did when they were trying not to laugh at him. Jack was very familiar with the expression.

“So your brother will be out here soon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Well, Miss Sarah Jacobs.”

Her smile dropped. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call her that,” Benjamin said at the same time.

Jack grimaced. “Right, sorry. My bad. Won’t happen again, Sarah.”

They both relaxed.

“It’s no trouble sir,” she said. She regained her smile to say: “Have a good evening, Mr. Kelly.”

With that she was off, and in a remarkable feat of timing, she turned the corner as Jack heard the rattle of gravel under tires. She winked at Benjamin before she disappeared out of sight, as though she heard his muttered _how did she even know–_ from yards off.

Benjamin smiled and shook his head. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Kelly.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll see ya tomorrow,” he said, grabbing his things up.

Benjamin’s eyes widened at what Jack knew was an awkward sight. “Do you need any help?”

“Nah,” he answered, jumping a little to get the easel to stop dragging so much. “I got it.” He raised the hand attached to the arm that was wrapped tight around the wooden contraption. “Bye!”

Dav– _Jacobs_ was already holding the back door open for him.

“Thanks!” Jack said.

He lifted up the easel to deposit it into the back. Davi– _Jacobs_ finished the motion for him, moving the contraption so that it laid at an angle so that it wasn’t scratching the back seat. He then took Jack’s portfolio and placed it gently on the seat, propping it so that the easel prevented it from dropping to the floor of the vehicle. It was a degree of care beyond even what Jack gave it.

David– _Jacobs, damn it,_ opened the passenger seat and looked at Jack. For a while. “Sir?”

Jack unfroze. “Right. Thanks.”

He hopped in. David closed the door for him. Jack leaned back and closed his eyes.

Jack knew he was good with people… usually. In the shadow of the estate and under the cover of the car all those skills seemed to abandon him. Somehow this place just threw him off completely. He had to watch his every step. Too many of them had missteps. He couldn’t… he couldn’t keep doing that.

Oh, _shit,_ he’d forgotten to say–

“Is there anything before we go, sir?”

“I met your sister,” Jack said immediately.

David—yeah, that wasn’t going away—stiffened. “Oh.”

“She’s uh… she’s real nice,” Jack continued.

David paused. “… thank you, sir?”

“No, I mean, she is nice, but I’m trying to say, if it isn’t– I mean, I _know_ it’s…” he huffed, and finally had to admit defeat and once again prove himself awkward: “She left before I could do it myself, but could you thank her again for bringing me that stuff? And letting me know you were gonna be a bit? I, uh… I really appreciated it a lot but I didn’t get to–”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

David nodded, confused, smiling slightly, and then started the car. Jack settled back and prepared himself for the uneasy silence ahead of him.

..........

Jack had learned, so Jack spent the drive staying quiet and still. He hadn’t really had to do it since he’d left the orphanage and stopped having to look out for and behave under the always-watching eyes of the headmistress Mrs. Bradley. He still had it in him, apparently, which was a surprise. Some things really _don’t_ leave you.

He’d also learned from the many years of him and the guys living in each other’s pockets how to break out of those silences without breaking anyone’s calm.

As they came close to the turn, he cleared his throat quietly. The trick worked like a charm. David’s eyes darted to his in the mirror.

“Could you drop me off at the spot you usually pick me up from today?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir,” came the expected, but welcome, answer.

“Thanks,” Jack said, returning to the silence.

David opened his mouth. Jack tensed. He waited. David’s mouth closed though, and whatever words there had been there were left unsaid.

The car turned. The silence continued. They arrived.

“Thanks,” Jack said once they’d stopped. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” David replied. He wasn’t looking at him. “Do you need any help getting your materials upstairs?”

“No, I’m good,” he replied.

“Alright. Goodnight, Mr. Kelly.”

“Goodnight Mr. Jacobs.” _Whoops._

David smiled, though, so… maybe the rules were different for chauffeurs? Why was he guessing? It wasn’t like he knew. He needed a manual. Or a rule book. There had to be one of those.

 _God,_ Jack needed the day to be over.

Quick as he could and with a short second goodbye so that he didn’t mess up again, Jack grabbed up his materials and headed up the creaky stairs. _Please let them be home, please let them be home_ ran through his mind as he approached the door.

He knocked three times before he unlocked the door and let himself in.

His heart soared at the sight of his friends.

Four heads perked up at his entrance. Charlie raised a brow and smiled before he returned to his book. Mush waved from where he was writing notes at the table. Race was grinning at him from the sofa. He was sitting spread wide, with one arm thrown over the back. Spot was lying back, head in Race’s lap, where Race was absently playing with his hair as Spot read the newspaper.

“Hey, thought that was you,” Race said.

Jack put his stuff down and made his way over. “Yeah?”

Race gestured towards the window with his free hand. “I mean, it was a guess but was a pretty sure one. Ain’t no one in this neighbourhood can afford to _look_ at a Pierce Touring, much less drive one.”

“A _Pierce Touring?_ ”

Race sighed and looked to Charlie. “I told you he doesn’t listen to me when I’m talking cars.”

“It’s not like you listen to him when he’s talking paint,” Charlie pointed out.

Race nodded then shrugged. “I mean, there’s light red and dark red. Call them whatever the hell you want that’s all they are. I don’t see why it has to be anything more complicated than that.”

“If you’re about to start talking shit about my cadmium again–” Jack warned.

“Neither of you start this again.” Mush groaned.

Race pointed at Jack. “He started it.”

Jack smiled. “I did not!”

“You did,” Spot put in, flipping the page.

“Shut up, Spot,” Jack said automatically.

Three knocks at the door before it opened with a creek. Jack turned just as Elmer came in, a spring in his step.

“Hello, Jack,” he said.

“Hello, Elmer,” Jack replied pointedly.

Maybe this would be the day that Elmer’s manners would miraculously rub off on the rest of them.

Albert followed close behind. “Thought it was you. That car was way too fancy to be normal.”

Nope. Not today.

Race pointed at Jack again. “Ha.”

“Do you guys just watch out the windows for cars all day?” he asked the group.

“We work, too,” Race said, shrugging, “There’s just not much else to do while the stew is cooking.”

Charlie held up his book and pretended to startle back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, what _is_ this thing?”

Jack burst out laughing.

“You’re such an ass,” Mush said fondly.

“I’m in good company,” he said. “And I’m gonna make one of you read with me eventually. I need someone to whine to about this trash. Christ, I could tell you the ending by the third page and they keep acting like it’s a whole big secret. It’s irritating as hell.”

“Stop reading it then,” Race said.

“No. I need to finish it to make sure I’m right.”

“Then it’s not that bad, huh?” Albert said.

Charlie glared at him. “Don’t test me.”

“Well, if you want something good to read…” Spot said, waving the newspaper in the air.

Jack looked at him in confusion. Then it dawned on him.

“You’re messing with me.”

Race grabbed the paper out of Spot’s hands and grinned like an idiot. “Book review.”

Jack was sure he was grinning even wider. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“Oh thank god,” Charlie said, setting his book aside eagerly.

As soon as Spot sat up to free him, Race bounded to the centre of the room. The rest of them shifted to their usual spots. Mush dragged his chair over beside Charlie in the armchair, leaning forward, arms on his knees. Spot shifted over so that Jack and Elmer could squeeze next to him on the sofa. Albert sat on the floor, back resting against Spot’s leg.

Race stood in front of the assembled group, cleared his throat and began to read: “ _Upton Sinclair’s_ The Jungle _opens on a wedding. It is the last time any of the characters are happy._ ”

“Hell yes,” Charlie said, sitting up straighter.

Race grinned and continued: “ _The novel follows_ … uh… Jurgis Rudkus–”

“ _Jurgis Rudkus_ , I think,” Elmer offered. “Think of the J as a Y.”

“Right, thanks. _The novel follows Jurgis Rudkus, a Lithuanian immigrant in Chicago, as he and his family struggle to survive in the unforgiving meatpacking district. As he and his wife fall into debt, all members of the family are forced to seek work to survive. Accidents and tragedies lead them to ruin—evictions, deaths, disappearances, arrests, and forced prostitution to name only a few._ ”

“Jesus…” Jack muttered.

Spot whacked him in the side. Jack whacked him back.

“ _Crushed spiritually and physically, Jurgis finds deliverance in the reform movement and the rallying cry of “CHICAGO WILL BE OURS!”_ ” Race paused and looked up to them all. “ _It is not a subtle book._ ”

They all snickered.

“The Jungle _is not a fine work of literature,_ ” Race proclaimed, waving his hand in dismissal. “ _The characters are formulaic. The metaphors are denser than a brick. The plot is a procession of depression. It is muckraking disguised as a novel._ The Jungle _is not an enjoyable book. It is a necessary book._ ”

Charlie whistled low. Jack smiled at him.

“ _Sinclair’s detailed account pulls back the curtain–_ ” Race made the motion to correspond “ _–on corruption in the meat-packing industry. Sinclair resists the urge to dilute his prose for palatability. He published the novel on his own dime after repeated rejection. One can only imagine the re-writes publishers encouraged him to make. Sinclair wrote this to reveal a disgusting truth._ ”

“Palatability?” Albert asked.

“When something’s agreeable or can be enjoyed,” Spot answered. “Race’s food is palatable. Your food isn’t.”

“Hey! Rude.”

“ _Reaction to_ The Jungle–” Race said over the sound of Albert smacking Spot’s foot “ _–has been anything but unexpected. Reviews proclaim Sinclair sanctimonious and maudlin to discourage reading. Those who have read it speak out against the terror of rancid meat. It remains to be seen whether public outcry will spur action. President Roosevelt has dismissed Sinclair’s work previously with his usual response to social critique: declaring the critic a socialist. Harvard must be ashamed to have produced such rhetorical skills._ ”

Charlie snorted. Mush burst out laughing.

“Okay, what’s _rhetorical?_ ” Albert asked.

“How well someone argues their point,” Spot answered.

Albert’s eyes went wide: “Oh _shit._ ”

Mush laughed even harder.

Race shushed him and continued, louder: “ _Current reaction fails to comprehend the true revelation of Sinclair’s work: tainted meat is unavoidable when employees are treated with less dignity than is afforded to cattle set for slaughter. Realizing this truth requires audiences to recognize the Rudkuses that surround them. Their story is not unique. The patterns of abuse and manipulation they are subjected to play out in the meat-packing industry, in manufacturing, in agriculture, and in the streets across this nation. They will continue to if audiences do not learn to react with their hearts and minds as well as their stomachs,_ ” He paused, smiling, and finished: “ _Sinclair’s novel is a triumph for the sheer discomfort it incites. It is essential that we sit with this discomfort, name it, and work to enact the changes it demands._ ”

He bowed to their applause, hoots, and hollers.

“He’s done it again,” Jack said.

“A little heavy on the complex words and kind of preachy but it’s one of his best,” Charlie agreed.

Jack laughed. “Ever the critic, hey, Chuck.”

“I said I liked it!” he defended. “And it did its job. I’m gonna see if they’ve gotten that one in at the library.”

“Better head there quick, I bet it’ll be pretty popular after this,” Elmer said. “Hey, you checked on the stew lately?”

“Not for a while. Go poke the potatoes and see if they’re soft,” Spot said.

“On it.”

As he got up, Jack shifted over so that Race could sit beside Spot.

Race did so immediately, collapsing into the cushions. “Why the hell they haven’t moved him to the front page is beyond me.”

“Or at least fired that other social reporter,” Spot said.

Race nodded. “Out of a cannon.”

“Or a rifle. Grind him up real fine and used him for powder,” Spot suggested.

“Not his toes though.”

“Keep the toes for the bullets?”

“Exactly.”

“Why are you two like this?” Mush asked.

Spot and Race paused their back and forth and looked to each other in question.

“I think it’s because Race would always skip out on his lice checks,” Elmer said mildly.

They all turned to where he was standing in front of the stove, back turned, fishing around in the drawer.

Mush’s face screwed up even more. “ _What?_ ”

“Yep,” he said, pulling out a fork. “They burrowed into his skull and ate away at his brain. They must have jumped over to Spot once they’d eaten Race clean.”

The entire room went very quiet. Elmer looked back and smiled, then he turned around and poked at the potatoes.

Mush broke the silence: “Elmer, what the _fuck._ ”

And that was enough that they all burst out laughing.

“Oh, Christ,” Charlie said, wiping away tears, “you gotta stay over here more, Elmer.”

“Jack’s always on the couch,” Elmer pointed out.

“Jack, you’re sleeping over there tonight.” Charlie said.

“No goddamn way,” Jack argued, “Not with Spot’s snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

Albert nodded. “He doesn’t snore.”

“Al, you fall asleep in a second. You don’t hear it.”

Race laughed. “I don’t hear it and I’m right next to him!”

“Well you love him, so we can’t trust your word a bit.”

Elmer’s smile widened. “Not to mention the brain damage.”

Charlie shook his head. “Elmer, don’t you fucking–”

“From all the lice.”

Charlie put his hand over his eyes. “ _See,_ Jack! You need to do this. For all of us. We’re losing him. Our sweet boy is becoming just like _them._ ”

Race’s hand flew up to his chest at Charlie’s accusing point, mouthing _who, me?_ Spot smirked.

Jack snorted. “Elmer was never a _sweet boy._ I remember that time he switched the baking soda and baking powder on the cook and never told a damn soul for seven years? A full two weeks of shit bread and biscuits all because he had a _whim._ ”

“You _didn’t,_ ” Albert said in awe.

Elmer shrugged. “Not much else to do.”

“Books,” Charlie said.

“Drawing,” Jack said.

“Job,” Spot said.

“Generally not fucking around with the food,” Race said.

Elmer shook his head sadly. “Absolutely nothing else to do.”

“We’re all terrible people,” Mush said in wonder.

“Eh, we’re fine,” Jack comforted. “I mean, we ain’t saints, but at least we ain’t out here yelling about bad meat after reading a story where a bunch of folks die making that meat.”

Mush nodded. “You got a point.”

“What the hell has to go so wrong in someone’s brain that that’s their focus?” Albert asked.

“Lice,” Elmer offered.

“I think it’s ‘cause they wear those real tall hats,” Race said. “I betcha they pinch their brains real tight. Or maybe what he said,” he gestured to the paper, “thinking so hard the other way so that they don’t have to go looking at the mess they’ve made in front of them.”

“Speaking of which, how’d your first real day go?” Charlie asked.

_It was six hours of agonizing silence in the car and four hours of agonizing silence while I drew. I spent the entire day with people who apparently hate my guts and think I’m an idiot, even though I only really deserve one of those reactions._

“Good. It went good.”

“Glad to hear,” Charlie said. “You have charcoal on your nose, by the way.”

“Oh for– _seriously?_ ”

Charlie chuckled as Jack fished out his handkerchief, and, oh yeah: scone.

“Hey, Chuck, here.” Jack tossed it over. “First fruits of our labour.”

“Hell yes,” Charlie said, stuffing it down in a single bite.

“You’re _ruining_ your supper,” Race scolded in his best impression of Mrs. Bradley.

Charlie flipped him off and grabbed his mug from the end table. “Might as well do this now, then. Albert, wanna get the glasses?”

“Nope,” Albert said, immediately getting up to do so.

In what felt like only seconds he was passing around glasses of water to all of them that didn’t have half-finished drinks already in front of them.

Charlie raised his mug high and said: “May I propose a toast. To Jack, who has now officially started the job. We did not do this sooner because we did not think the Pulitzer’s were serious when they sent us the contract.”

“We did not,” Jack agreed.

“To Jack!” the others chorused.

“To Elmer,” Albert said, “who everyday gets closer to his goal of making Mush’s head explode.”

“Your goal to _what?_ ” Mush demanded.

“To Elmer!” the others chorused.

“And, as always, to Mr. K. Plumber,” Race interrupted, “may your pen be quick to poke at the pompous bastards that run the Union into the ground.”

“To Mr. K. Plumber!” they all chorused, crashing their glasses together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently writing fanfiction sometimes means you have to reverse engineer charcoal portraiture techniques and write editorials on 114-year-old novels you’ve never read. Who knew? 
> 
> The last sentence of “Plumber’s” article is roughly based on a sentence from Darby English’s _To Describe a Life_ , which has no relevance to anything I’ve written about here but it is a fantastic book and some of the best art writing I’ve had the pleasure of reading.


	4. The Fifth Sitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Thanks for continuing to support this story and I'm sorry but this is a bit of a rough one.
> 
> Chapter specific warnings: implied/referenced racism and classism, slight body shaming, implied/referenced corporal punishment.

In the four days between the first and second sitting, Jack forced himself to hope that the first sitting’s awkwardness had been a result of nerves and newness. That hope died the minute he stepped into the drawing room the following Tuesday and found Constance and Katherine in the exact same positions as before. Jack would have thought he’d managed to go back in time if it weren’t for the two landscape studies that he knew he’d left drying in his studio and the addition of Mrs. Pulitzer, who was perched on the settee beside her elder daughter.

And so began a horrible pattern.

Jack produced page upon page of Katherine in the exact same pose in slightly different lightings and expressions that varied from _I would rather be anywhere but here_ to _if I had the means and opportunity, I would push every one of you off a cliff and I am three seconds away from making my own opportunity._ Constance sat so still that if it weren’t for her hand threading the needle in and out in and out of the cloth Jack would go over to check that she hadn’t just fallen asleep or died sitting up. Katherine would shake and grimace and refuse every offer to shift the pose.

The only change was that Mrs. Pulitzer joined them on Tuesdays. Last Tuesday she had been in the room when he arrived. Two days ago, she’d joined them an hour in. With her came a steady stream of conversation. Jack latched onto her questions about his work and comments about art tight. It was a good way to avoid noticing how tightly Katherine clenched her jaw at the sight of him.

Jack liked to think he had a healthy amount of confidence. He didn’t need everyone to like him. But having someone get angry at the sight of you was bound to knock anyone down a few pegs. And Katherine’s apparent hatred of his person was less a knock and more a battering ram onto the doors of Jack’s insecurities.

And if Jack had thought the first sitting was bad, he had no idea what was waiting for him with the third.

Without Mrs. Pulitzer there to break the silence, every tiny noise echoed in the high-ceilinged room; the clock on the mantle, their clothing shifting, the snip of Constance’s scissors, and charcoal scratching heavy-toothed paper.

The only conversation was:

“Hello Miss Katherine; Miss Constance.”

“Good morning Mr. Kelly.”

And:

“Are you ready Miss Katherine?”

“Yes.”

And:

“Would you like to shift the pose, Miss Katherine?”

“No thank you, Mr. Kelly”

And:

“Would you like to take a break, Miss Katherine?”

“No thank you, Mr. Kelly”

Well, that and Katherine’s occasional charming remarks about how she _had no idea drafts took so long, do you usually do so many sketches, Mr. Kelly?_ and how she’d heard of artists that could _capture a person’s likeness in only a few lines, though those artists were more established._

Jack dreaded Thursdays.

At least he had Wednesdays and Fridays. Those days he could just find himself a spot on the grounds and knock out a handful of sketches and studies. He never thought he’d ever prefer being alone, but you learn something new everyday. At least the birds didn’t glare at him.

_It’s probably not about you,_ he tried to tell himself. It had worked the first week. He’d forced it to work the next. As he looked down at the calendar and realized they were days from April, the words felt hollow.

He didn’t _think_ he’d done anything to upset her—and Jack had thought it over a _lot._ He really hoped he had done something, though, because if the hatred Katherine directed at him wasn’t because of something he’d done then it was about _him._ Jack wasn’t sure how much more he could change himself to suit the Pulitzer’s standards.

Still, it was miles better than his past jobs and it would all pay off—quite literally. He could deal with some discomfort and simmering aggression.

Eh, that wasn’t exactly a rousing thought but it would do to get him through.

At least that’s what he landed on as David pulled up to the front, doing a quick turn so that Jack was barely two strides from the first step. Jack was pretty sure he stopped in the exact same spot every time. It was kind of terrifying or, at least, terrifyingly competent of him. If things were different, Jack would try to get David to meet Race and take him for a ride—he was desperate to see Race’s face the first time David made a sudden stop so smooth you barely tipped forward.

“Thanks,” Jack said as he opened the door.

“You’re welcome, sir,” David replied evenly, getting out on his side.

That was one comfort; the drives were getting better. Easier, at least. He’d stopped trying to talk beyond greetings, sentence-long observations of the weather, thank yous, and goodbyes. As a result, David hadn’t flinched once since that first Tuesday, which Jack counted as a win. He still seemed real uncomfortable, though, but… not like he was waiting for Jack to fuck up? More like… honestly, Jack had no clue what to make of it. Jack was pretty damn sure David didn’t dislike him, anyways, which was way more comforting than it had any right to be. And David continued to be the absolute model of professionalism and single-minded focus.

David also continued to treat Jack’s materials with way more care than Jack ever showed to them. Case in point, he opened the other back door and levered Jack’s easel up just high enough that it slid out smoothly, neatly avoiding his portfolio on the seat, which Jack grabbed for himself. He closed up the doors on his side and circled around to meet Jack. Jack shuffled his materials between his arms, satchel slung across his body to hang slightly behind him, one arm wrapped around his easel and his free hand holding his portfolio.

David assessed that Jack—literally—had it all in hand, and then his lips twitched and he said: “Good luck?”

_Good luck?_ Oh, shit; he better not have been muttering on the drive.

“Uh…” Jack hoisted his easel up higher. “Thanks?”

David’s brows scrunched tight. “Sorry–”

“No!” Jack said, _loud._ “I mean, really, thanks.”

Whatever worry Jack’s worry had caused wasn’t cured with that. “Right. Well. I will see you this afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Right. Good luck.”

David pursed his lips. “Thank you, sir.”

Right. Yeah, Jack needed to go into the house. He needed to go into the house a while ago.

He did so with a nod. He took a moment to be _endlessly grateful_ that Mrs. Pulitzer wasn’t waiting on the front step like she usually was and hadn’t seen Jack making a fool of himself to her chauffeur. He had no idea how he’d explain it if she _had._

The door opened as soon as he approached.

“Morning, Mr. Kelly,” Benjamin said.

Jack beamed back. “Morning, Benjamin.”

He raised a brow at him as he stumbled in, smile dropping, dimples staying. “Want help?”

“Course not,” Jack said easily.

“Need help?” Benjamin asked.

That startled a snort out of him. “Eh, probably would be a good idea but when do I ever have those?”

The footman just raised a brow at that. It was easy to fall into the sort of talk Jack would have with his friends with Benjamin—far as Jack could tell, Benjamin was a gem of a guy with a sly sense of humour who’d fit right in with the other guys. He seemed to take Jack’s familiarity in a stride and met it with his own as much as he could.

As evidence: “My hands do work, I promise.”

Jack chuckled. “Seen you open enough doors to know that.”

He shrugged. “Had to make sure you remembered. The Miss Pulitzers are waiting in the drawing room.”

“Course they are.” Jack shifted his easel up so that it didn’t drag against the ornate rug as he followed Benjamin into the room.

Benjamin shot him a wry smile. He opened the door–

“Stop pretending any of this is for me!”

–and they both froze at what he let loose.

“Honestly, Katherine.” Even though her tone and volume were measured, Mrs. Pulitzer’s voice echoed in the empty hall. “You must learn to control your temper. It’s very unattractive.”

A bitter bark of a laugh followed. “Of course that’s why,” Katherine continued—louder and with more emotion than Jack had ever heard from her. Probably more than she’d had in all their sessions combined. “God _forbid_ I ever do or say anything _unattractive._ I’ll scare off all the men that are _hiding in the drapery._ ”

“And the _dramatics._ ” Mrs. Pulitzer sighed deeply. “Not everything has to be a fight, dear. You have already used up everyone’s patience for your quarrelling.”

The response was a strangled noise of frustration.

Jack looked to Benjamin, hoping for some sort of… explanation? Fuck, he didn’t _know._ Benjamin seemed as frozen as him, looking through the gap that he was holding open to let the rage echo around them.

“Control yourself! For goodness– I don’t know where we went wrong with you.”

“Mother, please–” came Constance’s voice.

“Oh, of _course._ There’s always something _wrong_ with me. If only I were more like _Constance_ or _Edith._ Just another perfect daughter to add to your collection. That’s all you’ve ever wanted, _isn’t it?_ ”

“Don’t get started on _that_ again, sweetheart. I don’t have time to listen to your inventions. I am late enough as is.” Mrs. Pulitzer’s voice got louder—not from raised volume but from getting closer “And do _try_ to calm down before Mr. Kelly arrives; you’re getting blotchy.”

“No.” The word was desperate. “No, you can’t just–”

“And sit up _straight._ The dress can only do so much to fix your figure. Now where did–”

_Please,_ Benjamin mouthed.

Jack unfroze just as he opened the door wide and announced: “Mr. Kelly, Ma’am.”

Mrs. Pulitzer came into the hall immediately, “Mr. Kelly! I didn’t realize you had arrived.”

Jack plastered on his most charming smile and said: “I just got here Ma’am. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Oh, do not worry yourself. You haven’t been here long, have you?”

Her smile was warm as ever, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Her hands were clasped in front of her, head tilted with a slight inquiring incline. With a closer look, though, he could see tension in her shoulders and jaw. Jack couldn’t be sure if it was real or invented though—whether he could actually see the remnants of the argument that was ringing in his ears. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe she was just that good at hiding it, at turning around and changing face. Maybe it was… maybe it had been nothing.

That had been miles from _nothing._

Jack widened his smile, sure that it would shatter if he didn’t. “Not long at all, Ma’am; I practically just came through the door. I was worried you came out at the draft.”

She laughed. “Yes, I am afraid it is rather chilly today. Well, my girls are ready for you inside,” Jack knew he didn’t imagine the slight raise of her voice at the words, “and I am afraid I must be off to the Blanchard’s estate—Benjamin, is Jacobs ready?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good.” She turned one last smile on Jack, said “Good day, Mr. Kelly,” and carried on towards the door. It was only then that Jack realized she’d already been wearing her coat and hat and was being followed by Vince.

“Good day, Mrs. Pulitzer,” he called after her.

She turned back and waved as Vince opened the door for her and escorted her outside. The door closed heavily behind her. Vince walked past Jack, down the hall, and out of sight.

Right. Well.

Jack took in a strangled rattling breath.

Jesus _Christ._

Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

Jack looked to Benjamin. He wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was also still holding the door open.

Right. Okay. Right.

_Fuck._

He entered the room.

And Constance was right in his face.

“Good morning, Mr. Kelly,” she said airily. “Or perhaps I should say good afternoon?”

Jack tried to take a subtle step back to find enough space to breathe. “I– good afternoon, Miss Constance?”

She laughed. “It is confusing, isn’t it? I always find eleven-o’-clock meetings to be rather odd; they are early enough that it is technically still morning, but close enough to the afternoon that it seems odd to distinguish. Don’t you think it is an odd hour, Mr. Kelly?”

She smiled up at him. She was white as a sheet except for small patches of pink on her cheekbones.

“I… guess,” he said, thrown. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“I suppose it is an odd thing to give much thought to,” she acknowledged, stepping with him as he moved to set up in his usual spot. “And I don’t imagine most meetings begin at eleven. Perhaps only if they require long and early travel—as ours do. Though I suppose there are also those meetings arranged to extend through lunch—I would assume you say ‘Good Afternoon’ for those, seeing as you both know your conversation will extend well beyond the noon-hour. That does remind me, Mr. Kelly, would you like anything to eat? Or perhaps drink? I am certain we can arrange to have something brought up.”

“Uh…” So he was going to spend the entire day completely off balance. That was good to know. “Sure?”

“Wonderful!” she said. “Perhaps some sandwiches and tea? Do you like sandwiches, Mr. Kelly?”

“Sure?”

“Wonderful,” she repeated.

She looked behind her for a moment and Jack took the break from her eager gaze to drop his portfolio and set up his easel. She turned around in time to see him level it out.

“I will send for some later,” she said, and then crossed the room back to her usual position.

With Constance’s return to the settee, Jack was finally able to see Katherine, who was already in her usual spot. In the same pose. With almost the same expression of neutral displeasure. Today, though, red blotched her cheeks and ringed her eyes.

“Hello, Miss Katherine.” It came out softer than he’d hoped.

She stiffened. “Mr. Kelly.”

The silence grew heavy around them, interrupted only by the clock ticking on the mantle.

“Did you have a good night yesterday?” he asked finally.

“Yes, it was very pleasurable,” she replied in monotone. “And yours.”

“It was good.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

She hadn’t looked at him yet.

“Are you ready to start?”

Her lips pressed tight, but all she said was: “Yes.”

He only managed to knock out one sketch before her arm started trembling.

“Do you want to shift the pose?” he said.

“No thank you.”

Yeah, no. He was done with that.

He opened his mouth to say: _You know you don’t have to sit up straight, you’re fine–_ but, no, he couldn’t say that. He wasn’t supposed to have heard any of that—he’d very purposefully implied that he _hadn’t_ heard any of that. And he was just here… he was just here to paint. He couldn’t make it anything more than that.

Her hand balled into a fist. The trembling stopped for a moment. Then it came back full force.

_Damn it._

He set his charcoal on the ledge and wiped off his hands.

“You know I’m suggesting it, right?”

She looked at him for that.

“What?”

“When I’m asking if you want to shift the pose,” he explained, coming around his easel to stand in front of her. “or asking if you want a break, It’s less an offer and more a suggestion. It’s not good to stay in one position for so long–” he motioned to her recline “–and you’ve been staying in that position for a real long time.”

Her expression was stonier than the gravel that surrounded her family’s front step. “I prefer this position.”

He huffed. “Yeah, I get that, but there’s other positions that are close enough that we could change to. I mean…” he moved towards her, and reached to point to where she could move her legs into a position he’d used previously when he was painting folks, “if you just–”

She smacked his arm. _Hard._

“ _What_ are you _doing?_ ”

He startled back, hands flying up in surrender. “I was just gonna point out another pose.”

She actually sat up at that, her legs sweeping to sit straight-backed, arms braced on either side of her.

“Oh is _that_ all?”

“Yes,” he said, the burn of offence building in his chest, because he would _never–_ “ _Yes,_ for Christs– what do you _take_ me for?”

“Oh _please,_ it’s not like you’ve been a paragon of propriety.”

“I haven’t been a _what?_ ” he demanded. “The hell are you even–” he cut himself off, and scrubbed his hand across his face. “Look, if you would just… just _try_ shifting. Or _stretching–_ ”

“Tell me, _Mr. Kelly,_ is there something wrong with my pose?” she challenged.

“Yeah there is, _Miss Katherine._ You look all kinds of uncomfortable.”

“I am as comfortable as I can be while someone is staring at me for hours on end in the name of some great artistic process that I have seen no results from.”

The words and their harsh delivery struck him like a blow. The fire in his chest burned hotter.

“ _Katherine._ ” Constance said— _Christ,_ did she sound like her mother. “Please–”

“And I’m saying you might be _more_ comfortable if you didn’t sit in the same spot for hours on end,” Jack shot back.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If you were a more skilled draftsman, perhaps I wouldn’t have to sit for hours on end in the first place.”

“Well I’m sorry I’m not up to your standards–” he said through clenched teeth.

“So am I.”

“–but if you _worked_ with me here–”

“Oh, so it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say–”

“You’re implying it.”

“God, are you _looking_ for a fight?”

She flinched back.

Jack’s brain caught up with his mouth. _Shit._

“Oh, my deepest _apologies,_ Mr. Kelly,” she said venomously. “I meant no offence with my _quarrelsome nature._ ”

“Look, I didn’t mean to–” he tried to say.

She wasn’t having it. “Well what a wonderful opportunity you stumbled across.”

“I’m not gonna–” he huffed. “For gods– I’m just here to _paint you,_ Miss, I ain’t here to do anything besides that but I ain’t gonna be able to _do_ that if you keep–”

“If I keep _what?_ ”

“If you keep just sitting there feeling sorry for yourself!”

“How _dare_ you,” she snarled, red-faced. “You don’t know a thing about me–”

“And you don’t know anything about me!”

She laughed harshly. “I know _everything_ about you, Mr. _Jack Kelly_. Everyone knows _you._ You’re all _over_ the papers! And even if you weren’t, I know _exactly_ the sort of man you are. You are a dime a dozen. You are not unique. You are not _special._ I know what men like you are after and I will _not_ be part of it–”

“Kitty, _please!_ ” Constance cried.

“ _Don’t,_ ” she spat. “I’m _done._ ”

And with that she pushed herself up to her feet.

Or she tried to.

Back when Jack was first getting used to drawing people and not hills, the ladies of the Bowery would pose for him as they waited for their cues. The first few times he’d complain that he couldn’t draw them if they didn’t _hold still._ They weren’t even making small movements; they were completely changing their positions, sitting and standing, leaning back and leaning forward. They’d poked him on the nose and told him, in no uncertain terms, that they were going to move whenever they wanted because they didn’t stretch as much as they did just to go as tight as a bow-string sitting still while he drew. He’d nodded, chastened, and apologized.

He continued to figure it out when he started drawing the boys, who had to face the trail of doing the same pose over and over. _They_ were not afraid to complain when their limbs started seizing.

By the time he was painting other folks’ portraits, he knew when to offer breaks and when to notice their discomfort and act on it. And, as much as they may not have liked _him,_ they knew to take his offers for their own good. He suspected they could feel the oncoming consequences of not doing so.

Jack knew the consequences himself. Mrs. Bradley’s favourite punishment for misbehaviour in her orphanage was forcing boys to sit on the “misdeeds stool” straight-backed and stone-still until she’d decided they’d stayed there long enough. Jack had once had to do so for… actually, he wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there. When he’d finally stood up, his legs had crumpled under him. Race had barely caught him in time to break his fall.

In an odd sort of parallel, he did the exact same for Katherine. Unfortunately, they were not friends.

“Don’t _touch_ me!”

She stumbled back, falling onto the couch.

Constance swooped in between them. “I think that is enough for today,” she said airily. “I’m sure we are all just… just rather tired. It’s been a long week and… and you’ve both been working so hard. Perhaps it would be best if we took a break today and returned on Tuesday well rested and with bright spirits?”

Her smile was so brittle Jack was amazed it hadn’t faltered or crumbled away, flying away on the heavy breaths Katherine was trying to smother.

Jack crossed his arms and looked away. The hot anger had dimmed but still burned. Rage no longer coursing through his veins. Guilt was starting to clog them instead.

“Okay,” Jack said.

“Okay,” Katherine echoed.

“Wonderful.”

Constance helped Katherine stand, stumbling as Katherine half-collapsed into her. Jack clenched his arms tight against his chest to avoid reaching out to steady them.

“Benjamin,” Constance called, “would you please stay with Mr. Kelly?”

“Yes, Miss,” Benjamin replied faintly.

“Good. Well…” She bobbed the closest thing to a curtsy she could with her younger sister clinging to her shoulder. “Have a good evening, Mr. Kelly, and, if I do not see you tomorrow, I wish you a pleasant weekend.”

“Thanks, Miss,” he said. “Same to you. Both.”

Constance nodded. Katherine’s face was turned so far away from him he couldn’t even make out her profile—just her auburn hair done up with a tendril running down her flushed neck and the sliver of a burning red cheek.

Jack didn’t watch them leave. He turned and packed up his materials—half of them thrown in his bag, half of them gently put away. His body, like his head, like his heart, couldn’t decide whether to be enraged or embarrassed. The murky territory between just felt heavy and choking.

“Mr. Kelly?” Jack paused but didn’t look over— _God,_ he couldn’t look at Benjamin after all that. “David… David cannot drive you home until your usual time.”

“Oh,” Jack said with a sigh. “Right, Mrs. Pulitzer’s lunch thing.”

Fuck everything, really.

“I’ll just–” he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I’ll just go draw the gardens some more then if that’s all good.”

“That should be fine sir. Perhaps… perhaps the shade section?”

Jack half remembered the gardener, Seitz, explaining to him how the shade section was one of the hardest to maintain since it was often—and this was what made it so easy to remember—in the shade of the house. They filled the lots with hearty plants for the kitchen. It was well out of everyone’s eyes, though, so it didn’t matter much.

It would have next to nothing good to draw. And it would put Jack out of everyone’s sight for a while.

Jack had no idea if Benjamin was offering it out of punishment or charity. Jack wasn’t sure which he deserved.

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

..........

The thing was, you couldn’t draw flowers angry.

Jack crossed out his last harsh-lined and spiky attempt and threw aside his sketchbook. He’d already used up two precious pages with the useless sketches—which were all he seemed able to _do_ these days—and a stick of charcoal scribbling over his mistakes. Leaves and trees, and horizons and clouds disappeared under hard black lines. He couldn’t draw the world in front of him when he was so distracted by failures gnawing at his insides.

He dropped his head into his hands.

_Great job, Kelly. Great_ fucking _job._

No. No it wasn’t all _his_ fault.

_I know exactly the sort of man you are. You are a dime a dozen. You are not unique. You are not special. I know what men like you are after and I will not be part of it._

The words echoed in his ears.

He had to hand it to her; Katherine Pulitzer didn’t pull her punches.

Jack wasn’t sure what she was trying to hit at, though. _Sort of man_ could describe a lot of things—painter, bachelor, young upstart, bit of a flirt, and a cocky son of a bitch when he put his mind to it.

And Jack had plenty of ties to groups gals like Katherine Pulitzer looked down their upturned noses at.

Spot had warned him it might happen, because Spot always said the things Jack was perfectly happy joking away. _Might be your income. Might be your history. It might be your Pa and, yeah, Jack, it might be ‘cause of your Mama. But none of that is_ you, _Cowboy, you got that?_ And, yeah, Jack got that. But it was easier when it was something he could blame himself for and fix. At least that way he wouldn’t have to keep putting up with it.

The first portrait he’d been commissioned for he hadn’t drawn up a contract. They’d offered him barely enough money to cover the cost of materials. And then they didn't like it. And they wouldn’t pay for what they didn’t like. He’d bartered the piece off for the price of the canvas and the frame because rent was due too soon to be proud.

Next one was the first time Charlie had acted as his agent. He went in with a contract and, yeah, it was written plainly, but it was iron-clad and they’d signed it. He’d spent weeks on this tiny painting of a little girl who was sweet and lively and asked a million questions every session. Problem was her questions showed just how little her parents thought about Cuban and Irish folks. He would leave their apartment with a sick and shaky feeling that still clawed its way up his throat when he saw little girls with pale blonde hair.

The next one they’d made a contract and did an interview first. But Elmer had been sick and they were short of groceries and they’d already used up all of their combined savings with the move so Jack took the job anyways.

And the next one.

And the next one.

And the next one.

And the next one.

He had more choice now. He had way more sense about him. Most important, though, he had a thicker skin.

Sunday afternoon he’d finally gotten around to building more stretchers. His neighbours had yelled at him for the noise when he’d left to meet the boys for supper that evening. He’d stood there and taken it, knowing that he was lucky they came to yell instead of complaining to the landlord.

He was used to taking it. He built his career by just taking it. But he _hated it._

_Sort of man_ could refer to lots of things, though.

Besides, he had to admit he’d been an ass right back at her. The whole “picking fights” thing alone…

And he was still basically a stranger. And, for fucks sakes, gals like her probably didn’t brush hands until they got an engagement ring. She must’ve just been reacting to that.

Yeah, he could tell himself that enough times over the weekend that he’d be ready for Tuesday.

But what did she even _mean_ by–

Shit. His was… what did Charlie call it? Fixating. He was fixating. He needed to not fixate. He had to ignore it. No, he wasn’t supposed to ignore things when they were hurting him—he’d told Albert that last week. But this wasn’t hurting him. He was angry. Yeah, he was angry and he had to let that go because he couldn’t make a damn thing when he was worked up.

“Sir?”

Jack startled.

“Oh dear. You know, I wasn’t intending to do that this time.”

Sarah Jacobs had come to stand at his side, looking down at him with a smile.

“I brought you a snack,” she said. She announced it like she hadn’t done so for seven of his eight days on contract. “David will be back soon. I almost didn’t find you in time.”

“How did you?” he asked.

“Benjamin. Should have asked him first, really, but I’m stubborn.”

Jack nodded, closing his eyes as he scrubbed his hand across them as though it would get rid of the burning that had been prickling them for the last hour or so.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass and slice of bread.

No fault to the baker, but the bread tasted like cardboard.

“Mr. Kelly…” she said, quiet and soft, “is everything alright?”

Jack swallowed the bread and took a swig of water to force it down his thick throat. “Didn’t hear it then?”

“Hear what?”

Figured the Pulitzers would have thick walls.

“Never mind. I’ll let…” Jack sighed, looking down at his feet. “Ask Benjamin. I’m sure he’ll give you a pretty fair reassessment of my character after all that just happened.”

He dug his toe into the gravel as he took another sip. The stones crunched in the quiet. A breeze blew lightly, rusting the leaves of the distant trees and ruffling his hair.

“May I?”

Jack sat up. Sarah was pointing at the pages he’d discarded beside him, the ones he’d dug out as soon as he’d sat down and looked through as though they held some sort of secret he’d never seen.

“Sure.”

He collected them up off the bench and nodded for her to sit. When she did, he handed the sketches over for her inspection. It felt a little like showing her an entire list of his most embarrassing secrets but he’d already revealed too much of himself today.

She took the pile gently with both hands, fingers at the corners, avoiding the charcoal. She held them up high enough that she barely had to bow her head. Her eyes flickered across the page, her expression assessing. Then she flipped to the next.

And then the next.

And then the next.

Each flip drew her brows closer together. Her lips turned down at the corners. By the last page she was nearly grimacing.

She lingered longer with the last sketch—the one he’d done what felt like moments and ages ago but was probably only a few hours. Something flickered across her expression, something deep and complicated that Jack had no hope of understanding. It ate at the pit of his stomach anyways.

She wiped her face of furrows and frowns as she handed them back. “You are very talented.”

He scoffed. “Not really.”

“I don’t give compliments lightly, Mr. Kelly. It would be best if you learned to take them when I do,” she said. After a pause though, she asked: “What’s wrong with them?”

His most recent sketch was in front of him. It was another head and shoulder sketch. About half of the ones he’d kept were. He’d left most of the full-body sketches back in his room, only keeping the few good ones.

He pointed at the sketch as he explained: “See how dark the line of her profile is—this one here? It flattens the rest of it so the shadings off. But the hair’s already too dark so I can’t go and blacken the background or it would disappear. Besides, her chin’s too round in this one. There’s always something—angle of the nose, height of her forehead. And the neck’s too tense. This line here’s too sharp and this one’s too soft so it just looks disjointed and…”

He sighed. He held it out in front of him.

He could go on and on about the technicalities, all the things he wished were better. But he knew those would all improve with a bit more practice. He was at the final push, really, for getting her features down almost as second-nature as he had the pose. None of that was the real issue.

“She looks like she’s hating everything and everyone around her,” he said bitterly. “She’s stiff as a board and uncomfortable and looks absolutely miserable because apparently she just is.”

He stuffed the drawings in his portfolio beside him. The rage was starting to build again. He took another bite of bread he could hardly taste and another drink of water to wash it away.

“In my admittedly limited experience,” Sarah said slowly, “everyone looks stiff and uncomfortable in their portrait.”

“Not in _mine!_ ”

It came out so much louder than he’d wanted it to.

Sarah’s hands clenched in her lap.

“I… _shit,_ ” he muttered. Louder he said: “I’m sorry.”

She looked over at him, steady and stern. Jack felt very small under her observation.

She smiled slightly. “It’s alright, Mr. Kelly.”

He shook his head. “It’s not. And I really am sorry.”

“I know.”

She turned to look out. Jack followed her gaze. From this side of the house you could only see the lawn, stretching out endlessly towards the treeline. The trees themselves formed a thick barrier between the green grass and the blue sky. It was a pretty boring view. Sarah was probably looking for words, though, rather than at the horizon.

“Sometimes…” she said, “when you keep your frustration inside it does not settle; it just builds. And, if you do not have the means or opportunity to deal with it, it gets released on the wrong person.”

Her voice had been so quiet that it took Jack a few moments to recognize the silence that followed the statement. He looked over. She was staring at him expectantly.

He sighed and nodded.

She was smart, Sarah. And she was right. He knew she was. He’d been on both sides of it, the one lashing out and the one the lashes fell on. He was usually good at not hurting others because of his hurt. He hadn’t always been—it was something he’d had to get better at, something he’d struggled with for a good while. He was usually better at it. He really wasn’t great at seeing when folks were just angry at the world and when they were aiming to hurt.

Jack suspected Sarah also had plenty of experience with both. He was also sure that her experience leaned more towards the receiving side.

“You’re right,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I was right to do it.”

She just continued to look at him expectantly, though.

“I’m sorry?” he tried again.

She closed her eyes, drew in a long breath. “Right,” she said. “I accept your apology, Mr. Kelly.”

“Thanks,” he said.

She took his glass and stood. “David will have returned by now. I will tell him you are coming.”

She turned on her heel and walked off.

Jack watched her go, straight backed, shoulders tight, head bowed, with the feeling he’d missed something.

He groaned and buried his head in his hands.

He’d thought the first sitting was bad. The first sitting had nothing on the fifth.

**Author's Note:**

> This is reasonably historically accurate in terms of the period and blatantly inaccurate in terms of the Pulitzer family. Blame Disney. They decided that Katherine lived to adulthood; who the hell knows what effects that would have had on history. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. You can also find me as benafee on tumblr. As always, I cannot promise or commit to an update schedule but I can promise and commit to doing my best.


End file.
